


The Changes to Come

by Izair



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Harry, Do-Over, Dumbledore Bashing, Grey Harry, May be slash in future chapters, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-20 18:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6020635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izair/pseuds/Izair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do-Over fic. Harry Potter is born again in 1980 with sixty years worth of memories. This is a chance to save  the Wizarding World and lead it into better future while finding the balance Magic has been craving for centuries. Grey/Dark!Harry with some Dumbledore!Bashing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The muscles around me started to push and I knew the time had come for me to be born. Again.

To be honest, it was a good thing that no one was capable of remembering their own births, because it was disconcerting, messy and a kind of traumatic event. Especially if one was an actual newborn, which I fortunately was not.

While I waited for the moment I could take my first breath, I couldn't help but think of how absurd the situation actually was. Me being born again, despite all odds. But I was kind of grateful, really. I didn't think I would have been able to rest in peace knowing how things could have ended for the wizarding world. Knowing that I had failed my self imposed mission.

The mere thought of it brought me a sense of despair for all the work that still had to be done, for all the things I had lost and the fear of those I could lose once again. Yet there also was a strange feeling of excitement at the prospect of starting all over and changing the future. Oh Merlin, how I wanted to laugh, yet I couldn't stop the hysterical edge to it. The feelings were too strong and I was too tired, and despite the new hope I had found I just wanted to curl myself somewhere warm and sleep till the end of time.

The emotions were too conflicting and the desperation wouldn't leave me, so when I took my first breath, I cried.  
It wasn't until this second childhood that I got to know what it was like to be loved by a mother. What a wonderful experience it was. A bit disconcerting though, specially for someone whose mind was that of a sixty year old man. A war weary, sixty year old man.

With that kind of mindset, it was terribly difficult not to doubt her love for me, to stop wondering about the source of such soul deep devotion. I couldn't keep myself from questioning it again and again.

Would she still love me if she knew about my real age, or about the things I had done while still living my first life? Would she still want to keep me in her arms and kiss my cheek if she came to realise that I wasn't an innocent baby, that I wasn't this brand new soul whose personality and dreams she could help to mould?

But those questions were irrelevant. Or more like it was irrelevant to pose myself those questions, since I would never get the answers I sought. As much as it pained me, she would die in just a few months and I would be incapable of putting a stop to her demise.

After all, there was a limit to what a year and a half old infant could do, and stopping a Dark Lord went way beyond those abilities.

All I could do for now was enjoy the time I had left with her, play with her red hair to make her laugh and keep silent at nights to not disturb her sleep. My only hope was that this new set of memories could replace, or at least balance up the one of the night she died. I really didn't want her pleas for my life as the only reminder of my mother.

 

* * *

The weeks passed and I allowed myself to behave like any child would. Naturally, I couldn't act as my old, war hardened self while in this tiny and ridiculously young body. It would have seemed unnatural to those around me, and drawing that kind of attention was the last thing on my list.

That's the reason I was riding Padfoot's back and laughing as if my life depended on it. Me, who had once commanded the remainders of the Dark army in the last Wizarding War of all. Me, who hadn't hesitated to kill who had once been my best friend, my first friend. Here I was, riding on the animagus form of my godfather. And I loved it.

The sad truth was that I couldn't remember a single time in all my sixty years of life when I could just enjoy the moment. No expectations, no need for pretending and, for now, no obligations nor impossible missions to save the world.

For the first time in my life, I was just Harry.  
I couldn't recall a happier time in all my existence.  
At least, that was truth until He came through the floo. The old goat with the need to save the world from his own mistakes, the same mistakes he hadn't learned nothing from. The fool who thought himself some kind of messiah with the right answers to solve all evils, as if Truth was eternally running through his veins. The righteous idiot who condemned us all.

Merlin, how I had come to hate that man.

And that same man was talking to my parents while glancing at me with his twinkling blue eyes. How I hated those eyes, too. Now the man was coming in my direction, and he seemed to want to pick me up. I didn't know if this had happened my first time around, but it sure as hell was not going to happen if I could stop it.

I took a deep breath and filled my little lungs with all the air I could muster right before I started to cry. Loudly. I let my eyes fill with tears and tried to hide behind Padfoot, who couldn't transform back and reveal his animagus status to Dumbledore.

The look of uncertainty that graced the goat's eyes was a beautiful sight to me. I loved to witness those times when the fool didn't know what to do. They were so few yet so satisfying, but it soon came to an end, the goat recomposing his expression while my mother apologised for my behaviour, not knowing what had happened to me as I usually was such a sweet and silent child.

Poor woman. She had such faith in the old man. If she just knew the grief his actions would bring to our world she would have cried too, just as I was doing. Or maybe not. She was, after all, an incredibly kind and forgiving person, traits that I had inherited from her but had lost as I grew older, more realistic. Cynical.

But I didn't want to keep on with that line of thoughts. I just hoped the goat would leave my house soon, so I could enjoy the little time I had left with my family. Afterwards there would be so much to do, enough to keep my mind entertained.

 

* * *

When Samhain came, I had to gather all my self control to stop myself from crying.

That was it, I would never see my parents again after that night. One would say that an old man, and a warrior such as myself would be above, or at least used to the feeling of loss. And to a certain extent I was, but I couldn't help but grieve these two people who loved me unconditionally and would gladly give their life to save mine. I couldn't help but mourn the family I could have had and the sense of peace I had found in my parents, something I doubted I would feel ever again.

Yet I knew there was no other way at the moment. I wasn't able to talk yet, let alone stop a powerful Dark Lord in a strange fit of accidental magic. That night was simply bound to happen, and I found some comfort in the knowledge that they would have fast and painless deaths.

And then he came. I felt the exact moment he stepped into Godric Hollow. His magic may have been concealed as to not warn about his presence, but I could have recognised it anywhere. It had been part of me during seventeen years of my life, after all.

When the door flew open and the Dark Lord came through, it all started to play out just as I remembered. My father battling Him to give my mother time to flee, then her pleas for the Dark Lord to spare me and take her instead. The green light.

And then he stood in front of me. He certainly wasn't as I expected, for there was a lack of madness in his eyes. They were just as red as I remembered, and looked at me as if weighing his options, as if he wasn't sure if he should spare my life or stick to his plan.

Not even a minute later he raised his wand and pointed it to my face, disgust clear in his eyes. If the disgust was directed at me for being the child of the Prophecy or at himself for wanting to kill a one year old infant, I didn't know. And as soon as he opened his mouth, I stopped wondering either way, for he finally uttered the words I had been waiting for.

"Avada Kedavra".

It was but a mere whisper, yet it felt painfully loud in the stillness of my nursery.

The next thing I knew was pain and I couldn't stop a cry that mixed with the one from the Dark Lord. Yet there was something strange, for the wand had not been directed to my forehead, where my scar had been, nor was my pain located there. At least not exclusively. I could feel it coursing through my whole body, deep in my bones and right into my soul.

With my last forces I looked up to see the Dark Lord disappear into thin air and then everything turned black.

 

* * *

Irritation. That was all I was aware of through the pain I was feeling. The old goat's big nose was mere inches from my face, his eyes finally without that damned twinkle. What did he think he was looking at? I didn't have a damned scar in my forehead, of that I was sure, yet I could see him touching it, looking thoughtful, concentrated.

That was the moment I finally felt pain where my mark should be. I saw the old man waving his wand over my head as if drawing something. And then I realized. He was actually drawing something, specifically the shape of my old scar, the one that I didn't have yet. And as he did so he started to sing softly under his breath, an incantation I could not understand and whose existence I didn't know of.

The pain that had left me while I was unconscious returned with renewed force and I couldn't help but cry, wishing for it to stop, for the old man to shut up and stop whatever ritual it was he was performing.

But he didn't, and as kept on singing I could feel as if something inside of me was being sealed away, leaving me with a deep ache in my very soul and a hole where part of me should be, a part I could not feel anymore. It was the most awful feeling I had had in my entire life, and I instinctively knew that part of my magical core had been sealed away. How that affected me, I didn't know at the time and I certainly wasn't able to discover it. I had only enough consciousness left to keep on breathing through the pain, trying not to black out so I could get as much information as possible.

"You are a strong young wizard, my boy". The old goat said, once he finished his demonic song. "Others in your stead would have fallen unconscious halfway through the ritual".

Bastard. I would kill him in the future. He, unlike my parents, would not blessed with a painless death. No, he would suffer and beg for me to let him embark in the 'next big adventure'. But not before I had destroyed his reputation, his life and all that was dear to him.

"I am certainly sorry, young Harry, but this had to be done", Dumbledore said with a sigh. "There are certain things that I cannot risk. My only hope is that you will understand in the future, and maybe then you will find in your heart the will to forgive this old man". And that did it. I started to cry again out of frustration and hate. How dare he, how dare he do this to me and look me in the eyes with such a fake apologetic smile. The worst was that I couldn't stop it from happening. The feeling of hopeless resentment made my cries louder than before, and with a last smile the goat talked again, "Sleep for now, my boy. All will be better in the morning".

A wandless sleeping spell later, I was left in the arms of Morpheus.


	2. Chapter I

It was not bad, it was worse. The amount of strength I had to gather just to open my tired eyes was baffling, and my efforts were only rewarded with the awareness of pain.

So much pain.

Everything in my body hurt. My head felt as if it were about to split through my brand new scar and my magical core, which was still not yet accustomed to being bound and sealed, sent constant waves of pain through my entire body.

And then there was the cold. It was freezing and the small blanket that covered me wasn’t enough to keep the warmth from disappearing.

Then again, what else could you expect from an english november night but this kind of coldness that went right to the bones. And yet Albus bloody Dumbledore, saviour extraordinaire of the Wizarding World, paladin of all that is fair and light, couldn’t remember to put a warming charm on a one year old infant when he left me on Petunia’s doorstep.

In the middle of the night.

In freezing november.

How I hated the man. I would never get tired of saying it.

So, given the situation, the only thing that was left to do was wait. I had thought many times about what my next step should be in this crusade of mine, but I unfortunately had very few options available.

Whilst being bound to the limits of my youthful body, the idea of seeking for independence was to be immediately and yet sadly discarded. And though I was tempted to simply stand up from my moses basket and crawl into the night, hoping to be found by a nice, wandering police officer, the fact was that it would be in vain as it was way too easy to track me down and bring me back to Privet Drive.

The old goat had his ways, after all. Most likely it would take him two days at most to notice that the wards around the house hadn’t settled, which would mean that I hadn’t even made it through the front door. And as much as I wanted it to be different, the truth was that Dumbledore needed only one more day to read the minds of the muggles around the neighbourhood, policemen included. Or he could actually go directly to the nearest police station and ask about my whereabouts.

Easy as a walk through the park.

The officers would certainly who the old man was talking about. You don't find infants walking down the streets of Privet Drive every night, after all.

So all in all, I would be found in a maximum of three days and brought back to Petunia in the same amount of time and nothing I tried would stop it from happening, not with this tiny legs and certainly not with this yet-to-be-developed, half sealed magical core. The odds were all against me.

Then again, the former scenario depended too much on being found by someone nice enough to care. There always was the possibility of being found by a pedophile, may their souls burn in hell.

All in all, the only safe and Dumbledore proof option at the moment was to stay exactly where I was and wait for Petunia to find me. Which would not be happening until at least two hours from then and, even if I tried to cry to make myself be noticed, I most likely wouldn't be heard. Joy.

But sticking to my decision proved to be difficult for my circumstances were turning out to be unbearable. While the pain in my head was slowly subsiding, the cold was as strong as before and my body was absolutely frozen. I knew I wouldn't die from hypothermia since I had already lived this situation before and clearly had come unscathed from it, but that knowledge didn't bring me any comfort to my current predicament.

Unable to improve the situation I was in, I let escape a heavy sigh that and decided to pass time planning ahead the steps I would take in the years to come.

The truth was that I didn't think myself capable of surviving with the Dursley for another ten years. Again. Or more like, I wasn't sure they would survive my wrath if they ended up treating me again like a pariah, a freak. I had grown too used to being respected, and sometimes even feared by every adult I met, which were emotions that always hand in hand with being the commander of the last remaining dark forces.

But then again, the fear I had instilled in the hearts of light and some dark wizards alike was very different to the anxious hate the Dursleys had always felt for me.

While the first ones were wary of my power and the punishments I could take in retaliation for their actions, my lovely relatives could only look at me in disgust for the power they could not even begin to understand and the fear that touching me may infect them with my unnatural freakishness.

Those kind of feelings made them strike at me before I could become a real threat to them.

From a rational point of view, it was actually a very natural reaction for human beings. But it didn't mean that I would put up with their treatment. Absolutely not.

Sadly, there was nothing I could do to stop their neglect for at least another four years. That was the time my magical core would need to grow sufficiently and start to manifest itself through accidental magic, and it was also around the time when my relatives would decide I was old enough to start earning my keeping.

Not that I would indulge them, mind you.

But I had already allowed myself to dwell on those thoughts for more than was necessary, or even healthy, and I concluded that as much as I was aware of what I did not want to happen, I still hadn’t decided on the actions I wanted to take. I really had no clue about what the perfect solution to my dilemma was, and the uncertainty was starting to wear on me.

There still were too many variables to consider as well as too many unsolved problems for which I hadn’t got the answers to. At least, not at the moment.

It was so irritating, so terribly frustrating. The amount of matters and possibilities I had to tend to was enormous and I lacked the proper knowledge to solve them. I needed to meet with the goblins as soon as I could and visit the library in Diagon Alley so get my hands on as much information as possible, yet it was information I was unable to get in my current body.

The same body that was still half frozen under the thin blanket.

Oh Merlin, this wasn’t a good way to start my self imposed mission, not at all. I could only hope that Petunia would open the door soon enough, and until then the only thing left for me to do was to keep on dwelling on my frustration. Or sleeping. I was actually quite tired and could feel my eyelids start to close, so without much thought I let myself drift off.

Until Petunia’s shriek woke me up again.

 

* * *

Eight months went by slowly, in a similar speed to the pace of a turtle. My second birthday was approaching and everything was as normal as it could get. I had to admit to myself that things were not as terrible yet as I remembered. All things considered, the Dursleys did their part in taking care of an infant, changing my nappies and feeding me almost regularly. The rest of the time, they left me to my own devices, alone in what I remembered as Dudley's second bedroom.

I found it kind of unsettling, actually. Things were going too smoothly as far as I could tell, which I never would have guessed when Petunia found me on their doorstep. The pandemonium that broke in number 4 Privet Drive that morning was the most epic I had experienced to date, only surpassed by the time the house was invaded by Hogwarts letters. Oh, and when I inflated Marge. If I had not been so scared of getting expelled, I would have actually found the situation quite hilarious. I did so now, after getting some perspective on the matter.

But the fact remained that the Dursleys were treating me far too decently. They didn't coddle me by any means and they had certainly not displayed any signs of affection towards me, yet their treatment was actually kind of proper and lacked the neglect they had once bestowed upon me.

Had they been like this the first time around, I couldn't help but wonder. And if they had, why did their attitude take such a drastic turn during the next few years?

I could feel the answer in the backside of my mind but as soon as I tried to grasp it, it disappeared.

If only the memories of my first years of life were easier to access to. Unfortunately, an eidetic memory was not among the abilities I had been blessed with, and as the common human being that I was it was normal for me not to remember such a thing.

Which now left me with a large quantity of questions I could not answer. Merlin, this was starting to happen way too often.

But the answer to this specific matter came sooner than expected. It had already been a year since I was left with the Dursleys and I was letting Petunia change my nappies again, which even after all this months I still found very, very uncomfortable. And embarrassing.

I was a grown up man, after all.

When she was done and picked me up to put me in my cot her eyes, so different from the warm green of my mother's, locked with mine and she said in a soft voice, "Let's hope that you don't end up a freak like her".

And in that moment I knew. Of course their past neglect had to do with magic. When had it not.

It looked like the Dursleys were still expecting me to be a muggle, just like them. Or a squib, in my case. During my first life, my accidental magic must have started to act around the time I was five, which coincidentally was also the age from when I had my earliest memories.

This was actually a golden opportunity. If I got to control my magical core and stop any accidental magic from happening, they would think I was as normal as them. No neglect, no cupboard under the stairs. I could probably survive life with them without and prevent it from ending up in a massacre.

Well, that solved the problem of what to do for the next few years.

Obviously it did not mean that I wouldn't be able to do any magic at all, provided that I only practiced in the solitude of my room. Practicing was not optional, after all, not with it being the easiest way for me to gain the ability of wielding wandless magic. It had to be started at a young age so that I could keep on using it as an adult.

Knowing that the Ministry had been aware of this little fact never ceased to anger me.

From the information I had gathered through the years, I also learned the reasons for which the Law for the Prohibition of Underage Magic held a specific clause, one that prohibits parents from teaching magic to their children under the age of eleven.

It was quite logical actually, even if the reason for it still made me furious.

Since muggleborns only learned about the magical world at the age of eleven, many of them started to protest against the privilege purebloods and some half bloods had in regards of learning magic at an early age. The latter could do wandless magic, while those who came from muggle upbringing did not.

Some purebloods didn't hesitate on using this fact as proof of their own superiority, claiming to be more powerful than those of lesser blood for something that actually was beyond their control. It was not a matter of power, but of using it in a different way and using it earlier.

Still, the protest that came from a great number of muggleborns ended up forcing the Ministry to take action.

The options were many, but the final decision ended up being a double edged one. Instead of helping muggleborns in controlling their magic from a younger age, which entailed disclosing the magical world to them as soon as they were identified, the Ministry decided that it would be a lot easier to prohibit underage magic altogether.

Of course, this had the benefit of making the wizarding world easier to control since they all depended heavily on their wands now. Ministry regulated wands.

It was a win-win situation for the Ministry of Magic, but a downfall for British wizards and witches. It left the country on the verge of mediocrity when compared to other magical nations, yet it didn't stop the Government from spreading that cheap propaganda claiming them to be one of the strongest in the world.

It was so pathetic it made it hard to breath and I did not have any intention of participating in that type of madness.

Maybe, if things went according to plan, I would be able to change that special kind of fallacy.

 

* * *

 

As my fifth birthday approached I couldn't help but feel some kind of nervousness in regards of my current predicament, since even a half sealed magical core was hard to control the first times it manifested.

This was particularly difficult for me, since even with part of my magic bound I was still slightly more powerful than the average wizard my age, which meant that I had to direct every amount of self control I had into stopping any magic from manifesting without me wanting it to.

It was called ‘accidental’ for a reason, after all, and as such it tended to happen in the least convenient moments.

During this years in the life of every witch and wizard, the magical core experienced some kind of growth spurt which didn't stabilise until their preteen years. Hence why Hogwarts education started at age eleven, since until then one's magic seemed to have a will on its own.

It was terribly hard to control, and the difficulty grew with your power level.

Fortunately, I was not a typical child and had a clear advantage because of my mental age. I just needed to find some time, usually during the night, so I could practice my wandless abilities and stop the uncontrolled manifestations of my magic.

As easy as it sounded, I soon found out that it was not. At least, it wasn't what with Petunia’s watchful gaze always upon me. At this point I was sure she was aware of the intricacies of a child wizard's biology. She had lived with a witch for eleven years, after all, and seemed to be paying special attention towards me, going as far as checking on me late at night.

She was suspicious, and I couldn't fault her for it.

Still, it was starting to find it incredibly irritating since her attitude shortened the amount of time I had to practice and made my levels of paranoia steadily grow, which didn't help at all in controlling my accidental magic.

Because of that very reason, I decided that my best option was to start practicing with anti-muggle charms hoping that by putting them at the entrance of my room they would grant me some well deserved privacy. They were not as powerful as actual wards and an obstinate muggle may be able to break through them, but I was sure that with an extra dose of power it would suffice. And power was not something I lacked.

So every night after dinner I took some time to meditate. The process was similar to the one needed for occlumency, an art I had mastered during my thirties, and with every deep breath I took I went further down in some sort of trance.

Nothing existed down there except myself and magic.

It was beautiful, really. The experience always brought me some sense of peace, and I always ended up entranced watching my magical core as it moved in soft waves. But I could already see the differences between the state it was in right now and the one I was used to having. For instance, this one was smaller and not only in a too-young, yet-to-develop kind of way. Something was missing, and I couldn't specify what it was.

Then there was also a change in the magic’s colour. While my core had always been a dark shade of silver, right now it was clearly white. A bright, somewhat pearly kind of white. It was beautiful yet unnerving at the same time.

What had caused this kind of transformation in my magical core through the years? If the events so far had not changed in comparison to my original time line, then I could safely assume that my core had been white the first time around.

Was the change caused by my use of dark magic? I had after all dwelled a lot in the Dark Arts through the years, yet as far as I knew the possibility was unheard of. Wizards were born with a clear affinity in their magical core, an affinity which went unchanged until their deaths. Then again, the impossible seemed to always apply to me. It was kind of irritating, really, because the results were always unpredictable whenever I was concerned.

To solve this mystery I needed to gather more information, which unfortunately was only to be found in Diagon Alley and I was not ready to go there yet, not until I had gathered a better control of my magic.

Decision made, I vowed to put on extra care on the development of my wandless abilities so that my mastering of it would take place sooner than anticipated.

Afterwards, a trip to Gringotts was in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't said it before, but I am not a native english speaker so feel free to tell me if I have misspelled or similar. I don't fancy having grammar mistakes in my work, after all!
> 
> Cheers


	3. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of a challenging chapter since I have never felt comfortable writting dialogues and there are a few in here. Gods, my stress levels just went up while working on it.  
> Anyway, I hope you like it. I expect that in the future every chapter will be more or less as long as this one, around 5000 words, but that means that the story may take a little bit more to be updated.

One year, six months and two weeks. That's how long it took for me to completely master wandless magic.   
  
Of course I had already known it would take some time to be capable of controlling that particular ability, but still. It had been a difficult and extenuating process that had tested the limits of my patience. I had almost given up a few times, but in the end my efforts were rewarded.   
  
After I got to successfully cast anti-muggles charms I went through the whole Hogwarts first to third year curriculum, and still managed to learn some other upper level spells like the summoning charms as well as some very necessary glamours. I certainly would be practicing more advanced spells in the future, but that would not be happening until my magical core grew some more.   
  
All in all I was pretty satisfied with my accomplishments, even if it had taken more time than I had initially thought.   
  
In the meantime I started to attend primary school in September of my sixth year, and I could safely admit to myself that it was the worst and most irritating occurrence since I had started to live with the Dursleys. Since my plans involved staying under my relatives' radar in every possible way, I had no choice but to dumb myself to the point of stupidity. Or at least my definition of stupidity, which was the equivalent of a slightly above average nine year old, an age I would unfortunately not reach until around two and a half years from then.   
  
That little fact had almost brought me problems in the Dursley’s household, since even as normal as I seemed to be, in their eyes I was still the son of two freaks and how did I dare to get better grades than the perfect Dudders. But I could sincerely not pretend to be any less intelligent than I already was. My sanity depended on it, and I was already close enough to losing it as it was.   
  
The bright idea I got to solve this little problem was one I soon came to regret.   
  
We were already in January of my first year at school and my relatives came back home after a chat with the primary teacher. The irritation in their eyes was hard to miss and as soon as they saw me I knew I had messed up for good.   
  
During the last years, Petunia had warmed up to me since I hadn't shown any magical abilities thus far, even starting to call me by my given name instead of those lovely nicknames such as 'boy' or 'brat'. Never freak, fortunately, but even then there was no affection lost between us and I could tell that my mature demeanour sometimes unnerved both her and Vernon.   
  
What they made clear was that if there was something they could blame me for, they still would, so when they came home from school that day I got to hear how much of a distraction I was for poor Dudders, how I had probably copied his homework and presented it as my own since there was no way for me to be that intelligent and knowledgeable, what with us having been raised the exact same way and me being an orphan. What this last piece of information had to do with anything, I did not know, but then again the Dursleys had never been known for their rationality.   
  
Wanting to keep on being on their good side since my living arrangements depended on it, I said the first thing that came through my mind.   
  
"But Aunt Petunia, Dudley is smart too!" I exclaimed with my big green and innocent eyes wide open. "The teacher, though, she is not good. I can't understand what she says. That's why I got Suzie to help me!". First step, make them think I wasn't as intelligent as the teacher claimed and praise Dudley at the same time. Second step, negotiate. "If you want I can teach Dudley too. I know I can help!"   
  
And with those words the beginning of my own personal hell began.   
  
As hard as It was to believe it, the truth was that it would have been easier for me to learn quantum physics rather than teach Dudley basic maths.   
  
It was not that he was blatantly stupid, but he certainly was not the brightest kid around, and being constantly spoiled by his parents didn't help his attitude towards studies.   
  
My life went on like that between school, tutoring Dudley and practicing wandless magic. It was terribly boring, specially since I didn't get to talk with people of my own intellectual level. 'Making friends' with kids my age, as the teacher had called it, was out of the question, and I gained myself a reputation among the adults for being a silent introvert, which I didn't mind much.   
  
I found though that it was time for me to open my horizons a bit. The amount of things I had left to do was flabbergasting, and It had taken to many months to get ready, in a magical way, and be able to make a trip to Diagon Alley and start solving them.   
  
The only thing I needed was an appropriate disguise and the correct occasion. Since my relatives had come to care for me somewhat, it would be testing to escape to London without them noticing. I just had to find an appropriate excuse so that my absence would not be minded. The perfect time of the year for such a thing was during summer holidays. In part it was because it wouldn't be strange for a kid to want play outside for the whole day and, on the other hand, because there were less people wandering Diagon Alley during the first month of summer.   
  
Fortunately, when the time came for me to enact my plan I had already found an acceptable excuse for my absence. There was a small library a few streets away from Privet Drive, in a part of the neighbourhood I had only went to a couple of times before, at most. The building was relatively modern having been built sometime around the late seventies, but it still gave off an air of abandonment and neglect. It said a lot about the people in Surrey that the only local library was so depressing, and never bothered to visit.   
  
For me, though, it was the best excuse I could come up with since the Dursleys would never bother to go inside a library, specially if it was for such a thing as checking on me.    
  
The thought was disappointing though, because I still firmly believed that good literature would do the Dursleys a world of good. If I were to be honest, I had yet to see a worthwhile book in the Dursley's household, one that was not one of Dudley’s school books or a romance novel from Petunia. I had tried to read one of those out of the most despairing boredom on Christmas holidays, and to date I was still of the opinion that they should only serve as a way to light the fireplace on cold winter nights.   
  
That's how pitiful they were.   
  
Fortunately for me, I would soon be going to Diagon Alley in search of better reading material, specifically of the academical and knowledge containing sort. I was already counting the days.   
  


* * *

  
The day came and everything was going smoothly so far. I had only needed to use a few glamours to slightly change my appearance, turning my hair a lighter shade of brown and my eyes black.   
  
Just as I already knew would happen, the scar on my forehead was impossible to disguise so I had to cover it with a few strands of my hair, preventing them from moving with a sticking charm. My intention was to go incognito, after all.   
  
Everything had been planned in advance for that day and once I had apparated in an alley near the Leaky Cauldron, I changed my demeanour to fit the cover story I had come up with. As I entered the pub not one of the clients turned around to look at me, nor did the waiter as much as bat an eyebrow to my presence.   
  
Ah, the wonders of anonymity. They were never to be underrated.   
  
For now I had to find Tom and get his help to open the passage to Diagon Alley. Not that his help was actually needed, mind you, but a child capable of magic at such a young age would attract an attention I didn't want. And people would notice.   
  
I made my way to the counter looking for the bartender yet I had to wait for him to notice me, which was not an easy feat seeing that my stature prevented me from being properly seen from where I was standing. Still, as soon as we made eye contact he gave me his complete attention.   
  
"Hey, lad. What can I do for ya?" The smile on his face was as kind as I remembered.   
  
"Hello, sir", I said. "I have to go to Diagon Alley. My dad said that Tom would help me".   
  
"Yar dad, you say? Aren't ya a bit too young to be sent alone to the Alley?"   
  
Kind and concerned Tom, may Magic bless his soul.   
  
"Well, daddy said he would be waiting for me in front of Gringotts, the big white building at the end of the alley! And mum won't be coming back for me until the evening, anyway."   
  
"Yar mum, laddy?" The concern hadn’t left his eyes, but I could notice some amusement starting to shine through because of my childish excitement.   
  
"Yes. Dad says she is a muggle and she doesn't want to come here," I said with all the innocence I could muster, casting my eyes downwards and feigning to be kind of sad. "But daddy thinks I am old enough to see the magical world so he will show it to me sometimes!"   
  
Goddess, when did I become such a good little actor, I wondered.   
  
Tom nodded as if in understanding. "Ok, lad", he said. "I am the Tom your dad told ya about. Come with me and I'll open the entrance for ya".   
  
And there we went, with me almost running behind Tom since my short legs could barely keep with his long steps. As he took out his wand I was trembling with anticipation. It had been such a long time since I had been here and I had missed visiting the first magical place I could remember ever laying my eyes upon.   
  
"That's it, lad. Next time ya need someone to open the passage for ya again, just call me", Tom said when Diagon was finally visible. "Gringotts is the big building down the road."   
  
I could barely keep my eyes from the Alley as I managed to answer. "Thank you, mister. It is very kind of you."   
  
"Nah, think nothing of it, laddy. And stop it with the 'sir'. It's Tom for ya."   
  
"Ok, and I am Margo. Margo Adams, sir."   
  
"Good to know. Now off with ya!", he said as the passage closed up behind me.   
  
The Alley was brilliant and even with so few people roaming the street the place looked as full of life and magic as it always did. It had been many years since I last visited the place, being the last occasion sometime around my late thirties, shortly before I installed myself as the commander of the Dark forces. My new position hadn't been exactly a secret back then, specially considering my previous long lasting campaign to reinstate the Dark Arts and end the bias against so many forgotten branches of Magic. I obviously failed that task.   
  
Those had been hard times, and my status as 'persona non grata' kept me from going to any public places. Actually, I was unable go anywhere except for my manor and those of my followers’. How strange that word sounded now, followers, yet it was the only accurate description for them. They had not been comrades and they certainly had not been friends. I was their general, the one to guide them through the war as well as their last bit of hope before the fall.   
  
The irony of it was laughable, though. I could easily claim being the first person that went from supreme Saviour of the Light to Lord of the Dark.   
  
Well, not a Lord exactly since that title hadn't been bestowed upon me, but I still was the closest thing to it there was.   
  
Thankfully those circumstances could be rewritten now that I had been given a chance, and that was exactly why I was here. At least indirectly.   
  
I made my way to Gringotts with a small bounce in my step, taking in everything that was on sight. I loved this place dearly, one of the few that had not been tarnished with bad memories. Not even the state Diagon Alley had been in during the horcrux hunt was able to lessen in my mind how nice it later became, when the end of the war brought the flourishing of the english economy.   
  
Well, it hadn’t exactly been a flourishing, but the economy did grow somewhat.   
  
Then I finally laid my eyes upon Gringotts. It was a curious place, really, and knowing that one of the most organized and tidy creatures in existence would work in such an asymmetrical and randomly constructed building never ceased to amuse me. Then again, there was much to Gringotts one couldn't appreciate from the outside, its inhabitants being one of them.   
  
They were fascinating creatures, goblins. You could absolutely never trust them during negotiations for they knew every little intricacy of either Laws or the fine art of contracts. It was probable that, If allowed, they would put several clauses in tiny, almost invisible letter that would leave the contract null and void if it suited them.   
  
At the same time, though, there wasn't a most trustworthy guardian for one’s money than goblins. They would die protecting it and work for weeks without sleep just to earn some small profit that could be added to their clients’ vaults.   
  
They were both honorable and cunning, as well as ruthless merchants and warriors.   
  
As I said, fascinating.    
  
Whilst I walked up the stairs, I greeted the one guarding the entrance with a small nod and made my way inside Gringotts. Fortunately, there were not many people inside and one of the counters didn’t even have a single client in line. I approached it and cleared my throat to get the creature behind the counter’s attention.    
  
"Good morning, Master goblin", I said as firm as I could. My voice was still that of a child, but my tone was serious and, altogether, that of a fellow warrior, for one did not pretend while dealing with goblins. They could see right through you, always, and this goblin was no exception. 

I could tell that his first reaction was to sneer at me, seeing that I appeared to be nothing else but an insignificant child at first glance. But not even a second after his eyes had set on me, I felt his demeanour turn composed and respectful. 

  
"May your morning be good as well”, came his answer. “What can I help you with, Mister..."   
  
"Potter" I said, letting my scar show. "I want to talk to my family’s account manager."   
  
He nodded in acknowledged and called for another goblin. "Gnarnuck!" I heard him say, followed by a fast conversation I could not understand.   
  
The creature that approached was distinctively older and more serious looking, if that was even possible. They talked for a short time while the newcomer’s eyes were focused on me, and ended their conversation with a nod of understanding.   
  
"Mister Potter, I am Gnarnuck", he said. “I am the account manager of your family estate. If you would please follow me", and follow I did, as he went to the back of the entrance hall where a quite normal looking door was situated. It opened to what was like a labyrinth to me, full of random corridors with and an odd number of doors, but he seemed to know where he was going.   
  
After some walking the goblin finally entered a room at the end of the corridor and made his way to the mahogany table that sat at one side, indicating for me to take a seat on the opposite side of him.   
  
"Well, Mister Potter", he said while sitting down. "What can I do for you?"   
  
And wasn't that a long list, I thought.   
  
Without losing my tempo I went straight to the point.   
  
"So,” I started. “I take it that Dumbledore is my magical guardian?" I already knew the answer, but it was still a nice way of breaking the ice.   
  
The goblin looked down at the papers on his table and answered with a nod. "Yes, that would be correct."   
  
"And exactly what does that entail? I mean, how much power does he have over me?" That was a question that had been nagging at me for quite some years.   
  
"Well, a magical guardian has a certain amount of obligations in regards to their protégé", he stated. "For now, it translate to being in charge of your living arrangements, managing your investments -but always under our bank’s guide- and taking decisions over your schooling.”   
  
"So he has access to my money?", I asked. Merlin, I really hoped not.   
  
"Only your trust vault. He cannot touch your family vault nor any of the others you may possess. For that instance, neither can you until your emancipation, which will not happen until your seventeenth birthday."   
  
Not for another nine years. ‘Shite’, I thought. That was going to put me in a financially uncomfortable situation.   
  
"Isn't there some way for me to get emancipated earlier?" I said yet trying to not get my hopes up too much.   
  
"Not unless the Ministry changes the Law", he said, and I felt frustration invading me. Goblins may manage the money most of the time, but they still had to implement some Ministry regulations according to the existing treaties between both nations.   
  
"So, summarizing," I said, "the only money I can touch is the one in my trust vault.” I waited for Gnarnuck’s response, which ended up being just a small nod. “I guess that, as my legal guardian, Dumbledore will be notified each time I take money out?"   
  
"That is correct", the goblin confirmed again.   
  
I couldn't stop the sight that left my lips. This was worse than I thought it would be. How in the seven gates of Hell was I going to get out of Dumbledore's clutches if I could not even pay for candy without him knowing?   
  
I was afraid I would not be capable of coming up with a solution, and I went through every single idea I could think of. Then I raised my head and looked up to Gnarnuck. "Okay, so I have a few questions" I said, and ‘a few’ didn’t even start to cover it. "Hypothetically speaking, what would happen if I were forced to participate in some kind of tournament only meant for adults?"   
  
The questioning look the goblin gave me was full of suspicion. "Hypothetically speaking,  Mister Potter, you would be considered an adult and therefore you would be able to request your early emancipation here at Gringotts."   
  
So I could emancipate myself by age fourteen if I didn't change the time line. That was good to know, I guessed. Still, I did not have any desire to participate in the Triwizard Tournament again, and I needed money now. Waiting to get it for almost eight years didn’t appeal to me.   
  
Then, an idea started to form in my mind. It was brilliant. "Does this emancipation requisite work for all of my vaults?"   
  
Gnarnuck seemed to hesitate as he considered my question. Suddenly his expression soon turned into a small grin and he gave me a pointed look, as if understanding what I meant.   
  
"Well,” he answered while his grin grew wider, “it only applies to those vaults that were not frozen and deprived of a Head of House when the at the time, ‘new’ Ministry law was enacted. That would be around the beginning of the twentieth century.”

  
That was exactly what I wanted to hear, and I could already feel relief starting to wash through me.   
  
"So, let's say that there was this family a long time ago”, I stated. “All members of the main line died and nobody claimed either the title as Head of House nor the family vaults, so all accounts were frozen until the time a legitimate descendant claimed them again. The age to inherit those vaults would not depend on the claimer’s status as an, would it?" By the gleam in his eyes, I could tell the goblin was starting to get interested on my theory.   
  
"That would be a correct guess, Mister Potter", he answered. "Since at the time there was no Head of Family around that could change the stipulations to inherit, the Ministry law would be without effect for those particular vaults."   
  
Finally.   
  
"Another question" I said. This was too good to be true and I feared something awful would happen to compensate my luck. "Would there be a need for Dumbledore to be informed about my inheriting those vaults?"   
  
Gnarnuck outright smiled this time, yet not without a touch of cruelty. "No. Dumbledore's jurisdiction only covers your transactions as Harry Potter, heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter, and any others that were in your name when he became your magical guardian", he stated. "He would not need to know about the whereabouts of Harry Potter, Head of whatever House you decide to inherit."   
  
Those were the best news so far and I felt my lips stretch into a grin.   
  
"May I inquire as to which family you are thinking about?", the goblin asked.   
  
"Peverell", I said., and Gnarnuck's eyes widened a bit, the only proof of his surprise. 

 

"Very well. We can take care of it before you leave", he said. "Is there something else I can answer you?"   
  
There actually were many somethings, I though, but I kept my mouth shut.   
  
"Yes, just two more things regarding my vaults. I would like to know about every transaction that has taken place since my parent's deaths.”   
  
While nodding, Gnarnuck took a big stack of files from under his desk and started to look through them until he handed the necessary ones to me.   
  
"As you can see not much has happened since that night. Your magical guardian hasn't involved himself with your accounts' investments, so the money is kind of static at this point. On page three it's stated that he took a magical artifact from your trust vault, the only one there was, actually", Gnarnuck looked up at me. "All that is left in there is money."   
  
The only magical artifact I could think of was my cloak, which in Dumbledore's own words 'had been trusted' to him by my father. Lying bastard.   
  
"Okay". I laid the statements back on the desk. There was still a question that was fleeting through my mind. "Back then you said something, when you were explaining the tasks of a magical guardian to me. You used the words 'for now' whilst listing them. Those it mean that there will be more as I grow older?"   
  
If goblins just allowed themselves to approve of wizards, Gnarnuck would be shaking my hand for my sharpness. Since he couldn’t, he just let his lips twitch a bit and answered me, "At the age of fifteen and after passing your OWLs, you will be gaining access to your seats on the Wizengamot but you will only be able to vote them through Dumbledore, who will be acting as your proxy. It is a common practice among magical families.”   
  
Well, that was something I truly had not been aware of. Nobody had thought it important for me to know while I was still in school, and I had not been fond of politics back then. Had Dumbledore used my seats without my consent, I wondered. But it didn't matter now. He certainly wouldn't be doing it this time around.   
  
I was soon interrupted from my inner musings. 

  
"Is there something else, Mister Potter?" Gnarnuck’s voice was impatient and I knew he was getting tired, but I still had one last question.   
  
The most important one, actually.   
  
"I know that goblins are versed in a number of ancient magics that we wizard don't even know about", I stated. Then I left my forehead bare and, letting Gnarnuck take a look at it, I asked, "What can you tell me about my scar?"   
  
If the goblin noticed the contained anger in my voice, he didn't let it show.   
  
"Well, I can say that it is not a curse scar, as the wizarding world was let to believe."   
  
I scoffed. "That, I already knew", I said. "I am also aware that it was created during a ritual and that it caused the partial binding of my magic. What I need to know are the specifics on how it works, and how to get rid of it."   
  
The look Gnarnuck gave me for the next minutes was a thoughtful one. "We goblins don't know much about your wizard's type of magic, but we can feel it sometimes", he said. "As far as I can say, your magic is incomplete. It is not only cut by half and bound, so to say, but there is something missing in your magic. In a metaphorical way, one could say that it is like a bare galleon deprived of the Gringotts stamp on it."   
  
Merlin. Trust a goblin to make such a confusing, money related comparison.   
  
"Can you be a little bit more specific?", I asked.   
  
"Mister Potter, a bare galleon is still gold, but it is not considered money. It lacks the... personality, so to say."   
  
"Personality?" I asked, dumbfounded. That was new.   
  
"Yes", he said, as if that explained it all. Noticing my bewilderment he let out a heavy sight, seeming tired of dealing with obnoxious little wizards. Which I supposed I was in his eyes. "What I can recommend you is to take a look on human runes. I can tell that your scar is shaped as one, but I cannot recognise it since we goblins use a different runes than wizards."   
  
I let this new information settle in my head as I went through my options. Runes had never been something that had gotten my attention, either in school or in my adulthood. I wasn't a stranger to their power, but since that was something I already possessed I hadn't seen the need to study that specific branch of magic.   
  
That would soon change, I decided, while I added to my list the need to buy a guide on runes.   
  
"If that's all, we may proceed to prove your claim on the Peverell line", the goblin said as he stood up. I nodded absent minded while distracted with my inner musings, but still followed his lead to the door.   
  
I almost fell over Gnarnuck when he suddenly stopped his steps. He tourned over and met my eyes, a thoughtful look on his face.   
  
"Mister Potter, as I said before we goblins are able to feel magic, since we are more in tune with it."   
  
I stared at him uncomprehending. "Yes?"   
  
"Our gift, Mister Potter, allows us to distinguish different types of magic and get a sense of the person we are dealing with. His intentions, temperament", his tone more serious than I had ever heard it before in one of his kind. This was important for sure. Goblins don't offer information freely. Never.   
  
"What are you trying to tell me, Master Gnarnuck?", the seriousness of the situation calling for my use of his title.   
  
"While the magic in your body may be as young as you look, your soul is old. I can only guess the reason, but we goblins are good at guessing."   
  
I tensed when I heard those words, my voice turning cold. "I don't see how this is any of your business."   
  
"It is not my concern, that is true. My intention is not to pry the truth out of you, but your age and circumstances are the reason I'm going to give you some advice, free of charge." And wasn't that generous, I thought. "We goblins pride ourselves in our ability to see change when it's coming, Mister Potter, and we also sense who is going to bring it."   
  
In that moment I was torn between letting my face show the shock I knew I was feeling and trying to contain my emotions, grasping at some fleeting sense of control. The amount of information he had gotten just by my mere presence was incredible. I would never underestimate a goblin again.   
  
I nodded slowly. "Okay. So what is this piece of advice?"   
  
"Whoever did that ritual, whoever sealed your power, Mister Potter, may have probably changed the feel I get from your magic. I think you wizards are able to notice such things through some type of meditation." He said the last word as if it were some particularly bad and tasteless joke. “From what I know, you perceive the changes in Magic through colours.”   
  
The truth was that I already was aware of all that, and the goblin probably knew I suspected something similar, so I didn't understand where this conversation was going.    
  
Gnarnuck probably noticed how lost I was for he scoffed and almost rolled his eyes with impatience. Almost.   
  
"Mister Potter, if you try to get rid of that sealing ritual your magic will not only be whole once again, but it will also return to give off the original feeling. To return to the previous metaphor, there would be a stamp back on the galleon that we would be able to see. We goblins will notice the change in your affinity." And that was exactly what I wanted to happen, I thought, but before I could open my mouth to say so I was interrupted by whom now was a very impatient and irritated goblin. "There are wizards with a similar ability to ours, but instead of feeling magic they can see it. If one were to unbound his magic and thus, in your case, turn it back to its original ‘colour’, those people would know. I am aware of at least two wizards with this ability, being the first one the Dark Lord himself."   
  
I dreaded to hear the answer to my next question, but I still had to be sure. "Who is the other wizard?"   
  
"The same one I suspect put the binding in your magic on the first place. Albus Dumbledore."   
  
I knew then that some greater power was messing with me.   
  
How utterly bloody perfect. I could not access to my whole magic without the bastard knowing. Just brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that some of the things I tried to explain may be confusing (like all that stuff about why Harry should not un-bound his magic), so if you have any questions just let me know :)


	4. Chapter III

I did not feel disappointed.

Ot at least, that was what I would keep on telling to myself in hopes of believing it at some point. 

For now, while exiting Gringotts the only emotions I acknowledged were a great deal of anger filled with a note of despair. It was, simply put, impossible for me to accomplish some of the feats of magic I had planned while I being incapable of using that same magic in first place. Even the most optimistic person could see that.

I was not going to deny that the power I was left with was fortunately above average, but it was far from what was needed to perform a few of the rituals I had had in mind.

The whole situation was extremely frustrating, and I let out a heavy sight while I thinking of it.

The truth was that I missed it, I missed the feeling of my whole magic running through my veins, how it spiked when I was angry or confused and how I could command it at will with just a tick of my fingers. 

Still, it had not always been like that.

The changes had started to happen soon after what was named the Battle of Hogwarts. At the time I just thought I had been a late bloomer in terms of magical growth, since the average wizard experiments a steady increase in their powers until it settles around the age of seventeen. Hence why it's considered the age one reaches adulthood.

Now I knew better, though. My magic had been repressed in my core, unable to grow as beautifully as it should have because of the bounds that surrounded it.

Also, the fact that it had started to develop again soon after Voldemort's demise was not lost to me. I had stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago, ironically because of how many of my past actions had been orchestrated without my knowledge. After all, too many events I had thought of as mere happenstances had revealed themselves to be actual results of a certain bastard’s manipulations. 

It was difficult to admit, but Dumbledore's actions had not been the only ones I fell for through the years and it took me a great amount of suffering and disappointments to stop unconditionally trusting people. Hell, even the ones I had thought of as family had betrayed me in the end.

But I didn't want to dwell on those thoughts yet again. What mattered now was my scar and how to get rid of the ritual's influence. 

My best guess was that the connection between the horcrux and my mark was similar yet not exactly the same as what I had believed the first time. The scar was not only were Voldemort's piece of soul was located, but it also seemed to be contained there, as if the ritual helped in preventing the soul from invading my own. I suspected that the horcrux was being isolated in my forehead thanks to the part of my magic I could not access.

That actually meant that my power was not exactly bound, but more like redirected and focused on keeping the soul fragment at bay.

When Voldemort cast the killing curse at me in the Forbidden Forest and thus killing the horcrux, the ritual's purpose must have been accomplished and my magic was left with nothing left to do but return to my core, leaving it for my use again.

Still, that theory didn't completely satisfy me since it did not explain the change in  colour of my core.

It was such a bothersome matter, really.

The only way I knew to be free of my bound was to die by Voldemort's hand, and wasn't that a nice thought. I certainly had no intentions of letting that happen another time, first because I wanted to keep on living, thank you very much, and wasn’t sure if I would come back to life again if I let those circumstances play out.

Then there was also the matter of Riddle himself. I had honestly not yet decided what to do about him.

Thinking of the possibilities, there may actually be a chance that I might be needing his help in the future, which didn't seem such a crazy idea if taking into account that he did not look mad when I last saw him that Samhain night.

Cruel maybe, but not insane.

I could not stop myself from wondering what had actually caused his loss of sanity, for even in my first year he had looked to be in perfect control of his own mind. Also Quirrel's, for that matter.

Whatever had caused his insanity, it must have happened between my first and fourth year.

I immediately discarded his resurrection ritual as the reason for his madness, specially since he hadn't seemed exactly stable to me during that whole year if the visions I got from him were anything to go by. That limited the time line from the end of my first year to the beginnings of my fourth, and I still didn't know what the hell he had been doing during those years.

Maybe his madness was related to the amount of horcruxes he had created, maybe it was caused by the vast amount of time he had lived as a floating spirit, feeding on other being's life force. Maybe the cause was absolutely unrelated to those events and proved itself to be a completely arbitrary one.

Who knew, I didn't. But it still gave me headaches.

Another thing that troubled me was the matter of Dumbledore. I really had not known he had the ability to see magic, and the truth was that I felt as frustrated by that fact as I felt envious. I could barely imagine how amazing it had to be, being able to know the world from such a different -and useful- perspective. The inner workings of such an ability interested me just as much. Was it something passed down their bloodlines or did they acquire it at some point in their life? And if this was the case, had it maybe something to do with them being Lords of Magic? Was the ability a constant in their life or could it be turned on and off like a switch?

Merlin, I really did want to know all of it but I couldn't just go and ask any of them. I could already imagine the conversations and troubles that simple question could start.

In any case, I really had to profusely thank Gnarnuck next time I saw him. This piece of information was invaluable to me and saved me from royally messing things up, something I had a tendency of always achieving. During my next trip to Gringotts, I had to make sure to show the goblin my gratitude, probably in some monetary way.

Now that I actually thought about those events I felt kind of embarrassed for it but, in my confused and irate state after my talk with Gnarnuck,I had almost forgotten to take some money from my vaults, and would have actually left without it if the goblin hadn't reminded me. As things went, after confirming my claim on the Peverell vaults through a blood test I was guided to another room where the goblin thrust a purse full of galleons in my hands, with the promise that it would be discounted from my new vaults.

Still, the way the goblin said it made it sound more like a warning than a statement.

Goddess, I had been so lost in thoughts that I did not even know how much money they had given me. For that matter, I also forgot to ask how many galleons I actually possessed under the Peverell name, but I trusted they would be enough to last me until my seventh year at least.

Merlin help us, but how could I be trusted with such an important task as saving the whole bloody world if I could not keep my act together after a simple conversation with a goblin? Next think I know, I would be forgetting my wand when going to the battlefield.

Pathetic.

As I cleared my thoughts from all those distracting inner musings, I realised that my steps had brought me to the entrance of Knockturn Alley without me noticing. It wasn't as dismal now as it would later become in the future, even though it wasn't exactly a welcoming place at the moment. But I knew it could get worse if I didn't stop the chain of events that could lead to what now was my past.

I could still remember the vast amount of people that gathered on the streets, begging the pedestrians for something, anything they could feed their children with. All of them had had one thing in common, namely their affinity for the Dark Arts, something one was born with and had no possibility of changing. Yet the predominantly Light society had not cared for the reason they were dark, only about the nature of their cores and the subsequent need to shun and, if possible, eradicate them. It almost felt like a modern witch hunt, this time pursued by others of their own kind against what was feared and labelled as _evil_.

It was quite ironic in fact, because I had come to see more evilness in the hearts of some light families than I had ever witnessed the dark side ever showing. Still here they were, all those dark witches and wizards equals among themselves in their misery. Some were muggleborns who refused to go back to their original world or had nowhere else to return to, and some were purebloods who had fallen in disgrace after the Ministry confiscated all their belongings. Their crime, as stated, being dark.

The despair in Pansy's eyes when last time I saw her living in poverty on the streets of Knockturn Alley, would chase me for my whole life. As much of a bitch she may have been during her teenage years, she certainly was not _evil_ , and she certainly did not deserve this. Her newborn son didn’t either, yet he was fortunate enough to have at least one parent left.

Goddess, I could still see the orphans running around with barely enough clothes to cover their skin, some of them going as far as attempting to sell their bodies the same way they had seen grown up prostitutes do.

Fortunately, the Wizarding world may have been many things but a bunch of pedophiles it was not.

Not a single person had accepted the children's offer and, had they done so, I was certain that every single beggar on Knockturn Alley would have stood up and beat them to death.

That was something I actually felt very proud of, being part of a culture that loved their children above anything else, even in poverty. As things were, the adults in the Alley who knew of this circumstances just let the orphans be, not daring to explain them what their offers really entailed for they were too young to even know what the word 'sex' actually meant. Still, they could do nothing to help them, as they were in a far more miserable situation than them.

Kids at least got pity from the passerby, adults only got disgusted looks.

There were many memories I associated with this place, and I could still remember my daughter's face the first time I brought her to Knockturn Alley. Kind, sweet hearted Lily. She was seventeen at the time and had grown up somewhat protected, specially because of her mother's wishes to educate her in a way that would preserve her innocence for as long as possible. While I had felt the same need she did to keep our children safe from hurt, I also wanted them to be aware of the world they were a part of, be it for bad or for good.

I wanted my children to know what I was fighting for and where all my efforts were directed, and that's why I brought the three of them to Knockturn Alley after each of their graduations.

Sometimes I regretted it, seeing how things had ended, but then I would remember the determination in their eyes, their need to help me in my quest and I knew they would have never forgiven me if I had kept them in the dark. So different they all were from each other, yet they had all inherited from me that need for justice and desire to protect the oppressed.

Still, Lily's reaction to this new found knowledge was one I would never forget. She had only passed by the entrance of the Alley until then, never having been allowed to enter it, and as I saw the broken look in her face I felt I had done the right thing in waiting until she was old enough to understand. Had she been younger, the knowledge would have probably destroyed her. Her big heart had always been as much of an advantage as it had been a weakness, after all.

I saw the exact moment she noticed the children on the streets and actually understood what they were asking for. She had looked at me in horror, silently begging me to deny that adults were capable of using them in such a way, and didn't calm down until I put my hand on her shoulder and told her that no, no one here would even dare to do such a thing. It soothed her somewhat, but she was still horrified by the whole situation. I kept on looking at her and saw determination slowly settle in her eyes. She then grabbed a few galleons from her purse and went straight to one of the wannabe prostitutes with steady steps.

With a calm voice and composed demeanour that belied her nervousness she said, "I hear that you are selling your body and I would like to buy it", and as soon as those words left her lips silence fell on the whole place.

I think everyone in the Alley was as flabbergasted as I was, torn between horror and deep indignation. I did not believe my daughter was cruel enough to either be serious in her request or mock the child for his situation, yet I didn’t know were this was going and could only hope that something else were about to happen.

And I was right, for my daughter kneeled before the child and, while opening her arms, she told him "I will give you a galleon in exchange for a hug".

She went with that line to every child she could find on the streets that day and I had never been so proud of her before. I stayed stoically at her side for the whole time and, as soon as we got home, I cried for the first time in many years.

In the end, Lily may not have been the only one among my children that took this quest to heart and started helping me, but she sure was the one people loved the most.

Unfortunately, for all our efforts, reality was that we could not solve the situation in the end. Merlin knows I tried everything I could to improve the treatment there were being subjected to, but in the end it just wasn’t enough. Legal means didn’t prove themselves effective and bribery was not an option anymore, for my money had been steadily spent on fighting this prejudice and stopping the extremely discriminating laws that had been enacted through the years.

It was unbalancing Magic and tearing our society apart, but no one seemed to notice or, if they did, they looked the other way, too lost in their own prejudice to care.

This same discrimination, though, could be seen in a lesser degree right now, in the deterioration and marginal atmosphere that surrounded the only place in England were dark artifacts and books could be found.

In the past, many centuries ago, it had been quite similar to Diagon Alley, just another place for witches and wizards to shop. Now it was almost illegal to even step inside one of his establishments, and it wasn't rare for aurors to randomly apprehend people in there for the only reason of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Even knowing the risks of visiting the place, though, I still felt compelled to enter Knockturn Alley for some of the knowledge I seeked was only to be found in the books sold in there. Still, I was not naive enough to actually believe that the shopkeepers in that place would actually sell any of their merchandise to me.

At least not to the me in the body of a child.

How very, very frustrating my situation was, I couldn't help but think to myself. I had never been a patient kind of man and yet my circumstances forced me to wait for who knows how long just to get things done.

And things could not be speeded up a bit. Either an aging potion or polyjuice, which were the only methods I could come up with to surpass my youthful limitations, could not help me at all for some of their ingredients were under strict regulations and thus far from my reach. Also, I did not have a safe place where I could brew them, which was almost as necessary as the ingredients for the process was long and volatile.

All in all, I was screwed. I would have to limit my investigation to those matters that could be solved in my current circumstances and with a quick visit to Flourish & Blotts.

I took the small notebook and pen I always carried in my pocket and wrote a list of themes I needed to research. The legal and safe ones, at least, which actually weren't many. Among them was a basic guide and a dictionary on runes, which I considered the most important purchase of the day and as soon as I finished, I made my way to the bookstore.

As many other buildings in the magical world, Flourish & Blotts seemed to be smaller than it actually was on the inside, having been enlarged through a vast number of precisely cast expansion charms, a fact that was plain to see as soon as one stepped through the door.

The place smelled of old parchment and ancient leather and was almost empty except for the clerk behind the counter, and as soon as I saw him I adopted my child like persona and approached him.

"Excuse me, mister", I said with a shy attitude. The clerk looked at me in amused wonder while I seemed to take the courage to continue my speech. "I want to buy books. The books have to talk about the stuff listed on this note." I handed him the piece of paper and waited patiently for his reply.

The man was too amused at the situation for my liking, and I had a hard time not letting my annoyance show. I was used to being respected, dammit, not to being looked upon with protectiveness and... was that fondness? Merlin, I was sixty nine and this whole situation was so terribly wrong. The time of my coming of age could never arrive soon enough.

"Aren't you a bit too young to be buying this kind of books? Are you even able to understand them, kid?" His tone was between concerned and patronising and Goddess, how I hated a patronising attitude. It reminded me too much of Dumbledore.

With the most polite voice I could muster in this circumstances, I answered "They are not for me, silly!". I added a childish laugh just for good measure, feigning to find the notion ridiculous. "They are for daddy! He is waiting for me in the shop around the corner. I told him I was big enough to buy his books by myself." I then said in a conspiratorial tone, "I will turn seven in July, you know."

That brought a laugh to the clerk's voice and I kept on smiling if not a little bit shy, looking confused as to what the man was finding so funny.

"Don't worry, little man", he said. "I will search for the best books I can find. Your daddy will be proud of you!" And with that he left me alone at the counter while he went looking for the listed items.

I let out a sigh of relief as he disappeared. It was hard to maintain the act for a long amount of time, and I feared that my true thoughts would eventually show on my face without me noticing so when the clerk finally left me, I felt my shoulders relaxing and my mind wander.

One of the subjects I wanted to learn about was going to be extremely difficult to come by and, to be honest, I did not think it would be possible to find anything related to that matter either in Diagon nor Knockturn Alley, and the only information I could have accessed had been unfortunately taken long ago from its place by no other than Dumbledore.

Well, it actually pained me to admit it but this specific decision was one I actually agreed with. One could not have books on horcruxes laying around for students to find, so taking them from Hogwarts' restricted section was something I rather applauded, even if it had been the bastard’s doing.

But the clash of emotions I felt was very conflicting. As much as I agreed with Dumbledore, no books on horcruxes at Hogwarts also meant that I would not be able to read those damn books, and I wasn’t aware of another source of information about soul shredding ways of obtaining immortality.

It was necessary for me to know more about the way horcruxes worked and how they could actually be _undone_ , so to say, if I wanted to get rid of the bound on my core if not now, then at least when I was seventeen and could effectively disappear from the old goat's radar.

Why was everything so difficult, I thought, just as I heard a voice coming from the back of the shop.

"Little man, I have the books you wanted!" said the clerk. Merlin, how I hated being small and how I hated that guy for reminding me of it.

I turned around impersonating a six year old child again as my eyes met the man's.

"Already? That was so quick. Thank you!" Wasn't I an eager and adorable little kid. "How much do I owe you, mister?" I said as I pulled the purse out from my pockets.

"Well, it would be twelve galleons, six sickles and four knuts", he started, "but since you have been such a good boy I will leave it in only twelve galleons for you"

Well, there actually were advantages to being a child. Who could have guessed.

"Thank you", I said recuperating my shy stance and looking down with a small smile on my face. Then I looked back up again and with faked eagerness and big green eyes I exclaimed, "I will tell my dad so that I may come back here to shop again!"

And with those words, what I actually implied was 'keep treating me well and you will have another regular customer', as well as 'my dad will send me here again because of the discount you just granted me, so don't be concerned if you see me coming here alone in the future'.

Or at least, that was its translation to the language every Slytherin and successful businessman used, and the clerk, I knew with certainty, was at least one of the latter.

The pleased smile on the man's face told me that the message had been received, even if he wasn't aware that I wanted him to get it in the first place. We would both be happy with this transaction, and wasn’t that a beautiful thing.

As I was handing him the payment though, I saw a book on the counter that attracted my attention.

The clerk immediately noticed my wandering eyes and started explaining to me. "This is a book on the Sacred Twenty eight, a compilation on the history, rivalries and alliances among the Most Ancient and Noble Houses in magical Britain", he said while holding the book. "Do you want to have a look at it?"

That was a good question. Did I want to take a look at the book? The truth was that I felt something nagging at the back of my mind. I knew it had to be something important and I could already feel the enthusiasm the idea brought me, but I still could not tell the reason why. So while trying to keep my thoughts to myself, I just took the offered book and opened it at the index.

Everything became clear as day to me as soon as I saw the written names displayed on it.

I hid my sudden excitement behind a mask of nonchalance, asked the clerk to shrink the parcel with my newly acquired books and left the shop with a wave and the promise of coming back another day.

As soon as I stepped through the door I almost jumped of joy.

I was a genius sometimes, just brilliant.

Until a few moments ago, I had completely forgotten that there had been another person who had known about the horcruxes, and that person must have gotten the knowledge from somewhere, a place I was actually quite familiar with.

It was so obvious I was amazed at not having thought of it before.

There were a few details that could actually pose problems, but I was confident that I could stand my ground. I would have to use my acting abilities again and it would be far more challenging than any other role I had performed to date, yet it would be worth it just to get inside that particular library.

My plan was brilliant.

Well, not that meeting her _again_ would really be such a wonderful event. Or meeting her for the first time. In the flesh, that is. The truth was that I wasn’t exactly looking forward to be in her presence for any amount of time, specially if she ended up being as ‘charming’ as she had been after her death.

Oh Merlin, was she even alive now? I sincerely hoped so. The opposite would put a big iron wall between me and my goals. I might be able to get what I wanted in the end, but circumstances would be way more arduous to bypass.

If my memory didn’t fail me, and I had studied the matter deeply if for different reasons than the ones concerning me right then, the death of the last member of a magical household would shut the whole building down until another person of the same blood took control of the wards.

Not any blood relative would be able to enter it, though, for there had to be a close enough relationship that allowed the newcomer to share the family name or, at least, it had to be an Heir to the line.

Unfortunately, those circumstances did not apply to me. While I fulfilled the blood requisite through my grandmother, my last name was still Potter and I would not be a Heir to that particular family for at least ten years.

It was a real hindrance for me but an effective way to keep thieves from entering an uninhabited and often wealthy household.

All in all, the only way to know how difficult things were going to be was to actually visit the place and knock on the front door yet, given that I had a whole day ahead of me, I decided to go for some lunch before actually making my way there. I would need all the energy I could get, after all, for today was the day I would actually get to impersonate the Dark lord himself in order to meet with one of his old Hogwart’s housemates.

As I made my way to the Leaky Cauldron I couldn’t hide my anticipation, for Walpurga and the Black library were waiting for me.

 


	5. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few facts before you read this new update. I know that according to canon Walburga died in 1985 (a year before the events of this chapter), and that there actually are a few Blacks still alive at that time: Cygnus (Walburga’s brother) died in 1990, while her father Pollux and aunt Cassiopeia lived until 1992. Arcturus (Pollux’s cousin) also lived until 1990.
> 
> Still, for the sake of this story and because I want to, I will change the year of their demises: Walburga will outlive his remaining relatives while the other four will die somewhere in the late 70’s or early 80’s, like Orion (Walburga’s husband) and Lucretia.

The lack of Fidelius charm over the building allowed me to notice that the gates of number 12, Grimmauld Place were neither as rusty or deteriorated as they would become after Walburga's death.

I stood in front of them for some minutes, taking deep breath after another in order to calm myself down as much as possible, but I truthfully was still too nervous about my intentions. So many things could go wrong, after all.

For instance, what if my glamours dissipated before it was time? What if Walburga, in case she was still alive, wasn't fooled by my act? Or for that matter, what if Kreacher could sense, in way similar to a goblin's, what my true intentions actually were? I did not know the exact extension of a house elf's powers, and I regretted not having made some research before coming.

But no, I would go inside that building and everything would go smoothly, I was sure. Half of me was a foolish and reckless Gryffindor with an endless amount of luck and, behind this anticipatory nervousness I was feeling, I sensed that everything would be all right. My instinct was almost never wrong, after all.

Then again, it was the almost part the one that made me feel as if everything was doomed right from the beginning.

I had some advantage points in my favour, fortunately. For instance, I had a wide amount of knowledge about the Dark Lord's past thanks to my dealings with the Malfoys.

The circumstances in which Draco and I started to develop the strong friendship we later had never ceased to amuse me. 

It happened during one of our family trips to Diagon Alley. My youngest son, the at the time eight years old Albus, collided with a blond child that was wandering alone through the streets. I immediately recognised him for what he was, a Malfoy, since the resemblance to his ancestors was obvious and certainly hard to miss. It soon became clear to us that the kid had lost his parents in the crowd, and was almost in the verge of tears, not being able to find them again.

Neither Ginny nor I took our past relationship with his father into account then, for in front of us was only a distressed child with wide scared eyes. Wishing someone would do the same if it happened to one of our children, we sent his father a Patronus, brought the boy with us to Fortescue's and bought him an ice cream to calm his nerves.

The boy, Scorpius was his name, had barely started eating his treat when Draco stormed through the door, barely able to maintain his ridiculous pureblood composure while he looked fervently for the figure of his son. The relief was clear in his eyes, and I could absolutely relate to his previous state of distress and concern.

In the meantime, our children had started to develop the kind of easy going friendship kids form around boys their own age, and their joyous laughs resonated through the whole establishment. The understanding among them was specially clear to see between Scorpius and my youngest, and I knew then that they would become inseparable in the future.

My instincts were right, of course, and as their friendship grew stronger Draco and I started a tentative yet amicable rapport, even if just for the sake of our children.

Still, it wasn’t until the beginning of my campaign in favour of the Dark Arts that we passed from friendly acquaintances to debate partners and even drinking companions. Our reunions, though, always took place in the privacy of our respective homes. There was a lesser chance this way for them being interrupted by some meddling idiot with claims against Draco's ex-Death Eater status. 

Even twenty years after the end of the Second War, some people still tried to enact revenge on those who had been involved in it. The past, it seemed, was harder to bury for some of us.

During one of my visits to Malfoy Manor, our friendship already established, I came upon a corridor in which walls several family portraits were hung on. I stood there for what felt like hours, their scrutinizing gazes making my skin crawl. Draco soon joined me there, and didn’t lose a second in introducing me to his deceased ancestors while explaining them in detail all the intricacies of my campaign. 

Sometimes I really believed the man to be in love with his own voice for he rambled for such a vast amount of time that my feet actually started to hurt. I had been standing there for hours. Still, when he finally finished his explanations I was met with approving looks coming from the portraits’ eyes. They almost made me blush.

One of them, though, was more vocal in his approval than the others. His name was Abraxas, he told me, and he was Draco’s grandfather. He had died from dragon pox sometime during his grandson’s childhood but had had a good life until then, he assured me. He was so unlike the idea I had formed myself of a Malfoy that I couldn’t help but wonder if Lucius had taken more after his mother, and I was sure that, had I met him before his death, we would have become great friends. 

The man soon proved himself to be an invaluable source of knowledge and strategic thinking. As it seemed, he had been class and housemate to one Tom Marvolo Riddle, as well as one of the first wizards to later become part of the Knights of Walpurgis, the first name Death Eaters had been known under. 

He explained me the motivations and beliefs this group had formerly had, how their campaign had started as a political effort to isolate the Wizarding world from its muggle counterpart, how they wanted for a return of traditions and magical festivities as well as the end of prejudice against the Dark Arts. He told me that, while it was true that they thought less of muggleborns because of their tainted blood, they were still willing to fight for them. 

However tainted, they are still like us, Abraxas used to say. And the Knights did actually argue for muggleborns to be introduced to our society earlier, preferring them to stay in our world rather than risk exposure to muggles.

I admit that I hadn’t actually believed his claims at the beginning, but it was soon confirmed after a quick visit to the Wizengamot’s archive. Every single transcription of every session in the last five hundred years was stored there, all of them with a seal of authenticity. To say I was surprised was putting it mildly. 

Still, Abraxas story did not end there. He also recounted me how difficult their campaign had turned out to be through the years, how hard it had become to be listened to from an unbiased point of view. Their dislike for muggles and beliefs on blood purity made their legal proposals to be straight out rejected, for how could their bills be anything other than harmful if they did not even respect the people they claimed wanted to help?

Thus the transformation from political campaign to physical attacks, as well as the start of the first civil war in magical Britain’s history. 

What Abraxas did not tell me, though, was how such a reasonable political agenda as the one they had started with had ended up being a discriminating load of crap during the Second war, when the only clear belief the dark side transmitted was the one of pureblood supremacy. The war in which I had fighted, after all, had not been as much against the Dark as it had been against genocide and slavery. At least for me.

When I asked him the reason to this transformation, Abraxas could not find an answer for he was as much in the dark as I was. What he did tell me, though, was that he was happy to have been dead during that time, since he had no desire to participate in a massacre that would have decimated the already small magical population.

Still, he did mourn the man that had once been his Lord and friend and quietly admitted that he forgave his son for following the madman he had later became, for there was no way to escape what Voldemort had turned into. Specially while having the Lord's mark on his arm, and Abraxas knew what he was talking about. He had been in the Manor during his late Lord occupation, and what he witnessed during the Manor’s occupation made him dearly wish he hadn't.

Some of the things Abraxas included in his storytelling were actually fascinating in my eyes, yet in a different way than the war related matters, namely Abraxas’ reminiscences about his time with Tom Riddle, the man, and not the Lord he later became.

I felt deeply captivated by the idea of the Voldemort I had known doing mundane things. The way Abraxas talked about him made it seem as if the monster in my memories and the boy he went to school with were two completely different entities, and I had a hard time reconciling both men in my mind.

It was in this way that I got to know about Riddle, the schoolmate who helped his fellow students and that everyone adored, the overachieving know-it-all who go through the whole Hogwarts library in search of the perfect book to complete his charms assignment with. I even got to hear about Tom, the dorm mate that could not keep himself from snoring during winter nights and boy, did I laugh as I heard that particular piece of information.

I had truthfully enjoyed those stories, even to the point of going to Malfoy manor on a weekly basis just to have a chat with good old Abraxas. Draco did never cease on complaining about this, though, and even doubling our amount of encounters did not appease him. 

It was his house, he used to say, and the old man had been dead for decades and who did Abraxas think he was, stealing Draco’s friends from the grave.

Merlin, I laughed so hard the first time he said so that I couldn’t keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks. Even in his forties, Draco still had the spoiled little brat inside him I had known on the Hogwarts Express.

My meetings with Abraxas never stopped, though, and while I at the time had never thought I would have an use for all the information he gave me, the truth was that I felt incredibly grateful while standing in front of number 12, Grimmauld Place. 

This knowledge would serve me in my impersonation of the Dark Lord, as well as a proof for Walburga as to my supposed identity.

There was no way anything could go wrong, I told to myself, I had all the information I needed to do this. 

It was with those thoughts that I felt the nervousness that had previously surrounded me disappear, and while I was taking another very deep breath I raised my hand and rang the oddly muggle-like, flower shaped bell that was next to the entrance gates.

From my position I couldn't hear the ring I was sure got off inside the house, but I could clearly remember the nasty sound it made when I had been inside of Grimmauld Place, so many years ago.

Still, the minutes passed and nobody opened the gates for me. I was starting to feel restless and somewhat desperate, hoping against hope that someone, anybody would open the damn gates and let me inside, that Walburga was just being her usual charming self and making me wait.

Yet nobody came.

That was it, I thought. Walburga was already death and my trip had been for nothing.

Just as I started to turn around though, the gates clicked and moved just enough to let me in. I took my chance and got through them, passing by the front garden and making my way to the door.

This time I was not left waiting, and as soon as I reached the entrance a figure appeared in front of me.

I stayed calm and composed, keeping my face as blank as I could. Still, not the same could be said for the person in front of me, for Walburga looked every bit as nasty as I remembered as she glared at me with a sneer on her face. The presence of a few wrinkles and some gray hairs visible among the lustrous black were the only differences I could spot between the woman in the portrait and the one in front of me, sneer still firm in place. Well, that and a deal more of patience for she had yet to open her mouth and insult me for my muggle clothes and the lack of purity of my blood. 

We kept on looking into each other’s eyes for some time, until I could actually taste the tension in the air and decided to move on with my plan.

"You have aged well, Walburga", I said in a cold yet respectful tone. "I have to admit that I did not expect you to be still alive."

She narrowed her eyes at my words, contempt and disgust clear in her face.

"Who are you, mudblood?" She almost snarled at me, "And how dare you talk to me with such disrespect?" The last sentence was almost shouted and I had to gather my whole resolve not to flinch at her voice, another feature that had not changed from my memories.

I straightened to my whole height, which I admit wasn't much, and with my deadliest tone I sneered back at her. "No, Walburga, how dare you address your Lord in such a way? I may not have marked you as I did your son, but you still owe me your loyalty and respect!"

My words and the barely contained fury in my tone unsettled her in a way I had never seen a pureblood show before, for her jaw went slack and her eyes widened until they almost looked comical.

"My... my Lord?" She asked, stuttering. It felt so good to unsettle her like that.

"Yes, Walburga. I should crucio you for your treatment, yet I am aware that it is not easy to recognize me in this..." I pointed at myself "body". The disgust in my voice was, for once, not something I had to fake for I still felt disturbed at being so limited. "You could redeem yourself by inviting me into your lovely home", I said while looking straight into her eyes. "And a cup of tea would not be amiss."

It seemed that those were the wrong words to say for Walburga composed herself immediately and gave me another deep sneer, but this time she had her wand on her right hand and towering over me with a deeply menacing aura.

"I don't know what you are playing at, brat”, she barked out, “and the only reason I haven't killed you yet is because there is a chance your parents are hidden somewhere, watching this little prank of yours. Leave now, before you come to regret it" Her wand was at this point directed at my face, and I knew I had to say something to convince her before things got way more out of hand. 

And I had just the right memory for it.

"In my fifth year, which was your seventh, both of us stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas holidays, in your case because your parents had gone to France for one of your mother's distant relatives' funeral", I stated as calmly and assured as I could. This better end well. "It was the first time you couldn't go home for Yule, and you were deeply resentful because it wasn't allowed to celebrate the winter solstice at Hogwarts, something you were proud to do every year. I comforted you, and told you we could go to the Forbidden Forest that night to perform the traditional rituals, and so we did." I took a deep breath for the next part. "As way of thanking me you actually gave me my first kiss, but made me promise I would not tell anyone for you were already engaged to Orion at the time. And I kept my promise, Walburga. I never told a soul."

When I finished my talking, I got a sudden need to look at her eyes and what I saw there moved some part of me. 

She was crying.

Big, bad, pureblood supremacist Walburga was crying, and I felt the strange and unsettling need to comfort her the same way Riddle had done in the past.

"My Lord? It's really you! I feared you were dead", she said, and with a watery smile added "And you kept your word” she added as an afterthought, as if she could not believed I had kept a promise she could barely even remember.

For a matter of fact, I had not. Well, Riddle hadn't, for he had told Abraxas as soon as he saw him in the heat of a mild identity crisis. And Abraxas later told me. But I was not going to admit that to her.

"I did, Walburga", I said, while she wiped her wet eyes.

Merlin, I did suddenly feel absurdly guilty for lying and manipulating her in such a way, yet I didn't know why. I could only guess that this new feeling was related to her display of such a vast amount of human emotions,something before then I had thought her completely incapable of.

Still, this newfound guilt would not make me spill out the truth since I really did need her help. That, and I didn't want to break her heart, not when she looked like she had never been this joyful for a long time, years even. 

"We have to talk", I then said with a finality I didn't really feel.

"Of course, my Lord" and with that she turned around and held the door open for me, letting me go through. 

The house, for its most part, was oddly similar to how it would be years after its owner’s death. It may now lack the magical plagues it was sure to gather in the future due to years neglect and lack of cleaning, but it still gave off a characteristic air of abandonment.

I couldn't keep myself from wondering if Walburga had been living in this place all by herself, without a family member to keep her company nor a purpose in life to keep her sane. I did not want to pity her, for I hadn't even liked the woman in the first place and my feelings would certainly not be welcomed by such a proud witch. But, then again, one did not choose one's emotions. They simply appeared and one was obligated to cope with them.

"If I may, my Lord", Walburga said to gain my attention. "I was thinking we could go have that cup of tea in the parlour, if that is to your liking."

"Of course. Lead the way, then" I commanded. "And, Walburga, I think we are familiar enough for you to call me by my given name, so it will be Marvolo from now on." It was also much more comfortable for me to be called by a name that wasn't mine rather than a title I had not earned. 

My statement was received with another suspiciously brilliant glance and a nod of acceptance. 

"Of course, my Lo... Marvolo", she said.

As we entered the parlour she signaled for me to sit in whichever couch I prefered and took the seat opposite of mine. A set of tea promptly appeared with a pop, and I could only guess that Kreacher was watching us from somewhere in the dark, following his mistress wishes without having to be told.

We prepared our respective cups in a strangely comfortable silence, neither of us knowing how to start the conversation.

It was her, in the end, the one who courageously asked the first question.

"If I may ask, Marvolo", she glanced at me looking for my permission. "I cannot stop from wondering how you came to..." she seemed to have trouble finishing her question in a respectful way.

"How I came to be in a child's body, you mean?" At her careful nod, I started explaining. "As you know, Walburga, I have always been fascinated by every branch of magic, but took particular pleasure in learning the most forgotten ones among them. It was as much for the academical aspect as it was for strategic purposes, for it gave me an element of surprise in the battlefield." I took a sip from my tea to clear my voice. "While attempting to deepen my knowledge, I came across a source for immortality."

At this Walburga couldn't help to gasp, eyes wide and hands covering her mouth. 

"I... I was aware of your incredible amount of power, my Lord, but this..."

"It's Marvolo, Walburga. But yes, this is just one of the many feats I have accomplished in my life." I posed my cup on the table and continued. "That night, the night I went for the Potters, something went wrong and the curse bounced back, destroying my body and leaving only my soul behind to wander the earth. So I attached myself to the only living being that was in the nearby area."

It was then that I let my glamours drop, and from the look in Walburga's face I feared she was about to faint.

"The Potter boy...", she said.

"Exactly Walburga. And as much as I am glad to have a body, I can assure you it is not a dignified task to live as Harry Potter." At her look of confusion, I explained. "For starters, I am limited by the common core growth of a child, so I have yet to reach my full magical potential. Still, that is not the worst of it." I waited for my words to have a bigger impact. "Dumbledore is my magical guardian."

"You are living with Dumbledore!" The outrage clear in her voice as well as in her expression.

"Worse." I stated. "The old fool did not want to take the burden of educating a toddler. He left me with Lily Potter's muggle relatives."

And that piece of information almost made her cry in rage. 

"That arrangement is unacceptable! Isn't there something you might do, my Lord? Or is there a way I can help you with? Anything, I swear..."

"I know, Walburga. And while living with muggles is not something to my liking, what really bothers me is the amount of power Dumbledore holds over me until I reach my adulthood. I can't even leave the house without him knowing, and even if I moved somewhere else to live he would not have any trouble at all in finding and taking me back there." I let out a sigh of frustration escape my lips, one I didn’t have to fake. "For now there is nothing I can do, for I lack the knowledge on some specific areas that would be useful in my endeavour. And you are the only one I can count on for help, Walburga. You are the only one left of my first group of supporters, the one I trusted the most." And, unlike in Walburga’s case, I was sure this time that those Black members were dead.

"Me, my Lord?", she said said with a note of disbelief. "But what about Abraxas? You both were close and.." 

I interrupted her. "Abraxas has been suffering from dragon pox for some time now and, as much as it pains me, I think he will not make it to see another Spring." And it was true, I regretted not being able to meet the man I had come to think of as a friend, even if only his portrait version, but I could not barge into Malfoy Manor and tell him about how good comrades we had both become years after his dead. It was, simply put, not believable and would pose quite a problem in my plans.

The news, though, seemed to hit home for Walburga hurt at the knowledge of being the only one of their generation left. Goddess, the look on her face was heartbreaking and made me realise just how lonely this woman actually was. So noble and regal, even in her racism and future madness. Yet so alone at the same time. 

She had lost her husband and also grieved his youngest son, and maybe even Sirius after his imprisonment.

Goddess! I had forgotten about him! Or more like, I had forgotten that in front of me sat his mother. And the current Head of House Black. 

There might be a way to kill two birds with one stone, after all.

I hid my excitement expertly and with a calm voice I asked, "Tell me, Walburga. Why have you done nothing to get your son out of Azkaban?"

"Sirius?" She seemed to not understand. "My Lord, he betrayed the Potters to you and was left to rot in one of the most guarded cells in Azkaban. It would be impossible for me to get him out. I don't even know where the prison is!" she admitted, almost scandalized.

"I did not mean breaking him out in the colloquial sense of the word, but in a legal way." At her once again confused look, I said "He was not one of my men, Walburga, and neither did he receive a trial to prove his innocence. I thought you knew."

But from what I gathered in her look, she had not known this little fact. I witnessed the slow yet steady transformation from confused woman to bloodthirsty warrior whose honour had been offended, and I would be lying if I said I did not feel amazed by the scene.

"But they told me!” All trace of decorum was lost at this point, and the more she spoke the louder her words became. “They said he was found guilty and prosecuted, that there was nothing I could do for him!"

Her fists were clenched and her gaze was furious and much to my astonishment, in front of me was not only the warrior I had thought but an enraged mother with a need for justice. I admit that I had not expected this sort of reaction coming from her, but it seemed that as much as she disliked Sirius and as much as she disapproved of his choices, at the end of the day he was still her son. It was certainly unexpected, and that definition did honestly not start to cover it.

"Who told that to you, Walburga?" I asked, carefully as if approaching a wild animal.

"The auror”, she answered, “the one who lacked a leg and a piece of nose. I think Moody was his name. He came to me one day, soon after the Potter's death. He said my son had been prosecuted and found guilty! He lied to me, a Black!", she said, as if her name were reason enough not to deceive her. And taking into account the fame this family had of being vengefully cruel, it might actually be a good reason not to mess with her.

Still, the mention of Alastor's name caught my attention and I saved that piece of information for later peruse.

"Rest assured, Walburga. He will pay for his lies when the time comes." I promised, even if I was still not sure I would be able to keep it. Moody might have genuinely believed his claims were true after all, and I was not going to stoop so low as to take revenge on him if that was the case. I would not mind doing so if he had purposefully been part in sending my godfather to Azkaban, though. In any case, my first priority in the matter was to get Sirius out of prison. 

Still, my words calmed her somewhat and with a huff the fury was soon replaced by something similar to guilt, yet I could not be sure.

"Tell me, Walburga, I take it you are the Head of House Black since there are no heirs from the main line left?" I asked her.

"Yes, my Lord", she answered as soon as she was her usual composed self. Then she bashfully added, "But I admit that I have not been doing a fine job in my duties ".

"I see", and by the state some parts of the house were in, mine was not an incorrect statement. "That will have to change, then. As you are well aware, you have the right, and the obligation I might add, to confront the Wizengamot for the wrongfully imprisonment of a member of your House and a heir at that. You should petition for Sirius to have a proper trial. Under veritaserum."

The witch nodded with determination, ready to burn to the ground whoever stood in her way. She looked like a woman on a mission, which she actually was. A questioning look passed through her eyes, though, soon to be covered behind a blank mask.

"Ask me whatever is on your mind, Walburga", I told her, needing to know every particularity as to not commit future mistakes.

It took her some seconds to formulate her response, seeming to be fighting for the right words. "It's just that... I don't want to seem ungrateful for your advise, but I cannot help wondering, my Lord..."

"It's Marvolo, Walburga", I interrupted. "I thought we had already cleared that."

"Of course. Marvolo", she corrected herself. "What I mean to say is that I do not understand your interest in my son. Not that I'm not thankful, I assure you, I absolutely am, but that doesn't change the fact that Sirius fought in the opposite and wrong, I might add, side of the war and... I find myself unable to see your motivations. Not that I think myself entitled to even ask, much less..."

I took pity on her ramblings and with a wave of my hand I signaled for her to stop.

"There are different reasons for this Walburga. For once, as truth as it is that your son fought against me and our beliefs, he still is a member of the Noble and Ancient House of Black as well as its heir. We are already few wizards as it is and we don't need for a line as old as this to die because of some political and bureaucratic incompetence", I made then a pause to gather my thoughts. "This is not, thought, either my only nor most my important motivation. As I have gathered from different sources, Sirius Black is godfather to the body that hosts me, to one Harry Potter. I think you don't need me to explain what that entails."

Walburga was, after all, a clever woman behind that facade of mad supremacism. She didn't need much time to reach the correct conclusion. 

"He is your way to get out from Dumbledore's clutches", she stated, and she was absolutely right. Then again, I also wanted to just see my godfather far away from the hell Azkaban is. "But, my...Marvolo, he is also on the Light side, he hangs on the old fool's every word! Wont living with him put you even more in Dumbledore’s field of influence?"

As I said, she was clever. But fortunately I had more information in my hands than she was aware of.

"That's where you come in, Walburga, where your mission lays. Set aside your differences and show him some motherly love. Take care of him while he heals from his long stay in Azkaban. Make him realise, subtly, that the one who was there for him in his time of need was not Dumbledore nor anyone from the Light, but the same mother he thought hated him. Who knows, if you do well enough he might actually change sides. And once he adopts me I will be there to help you in your endeavour."

My idea actually had merit. I had loved the man as a father once, even though our time together had been short and had abruptly ended. I didn't want for Sirius to stay in Azkaban since it was something he did not deserve, but I didn't want for us to face each other on opposite sides of the battlefield either. The only way for this to work was if he stood either with the Dark or neutral, and I would do everything possible to achieve that.

It was also outstandingly beneficial for me if he could become once again a free man and thus, have the ability to adopte me. The Dursleys would find out sooner rather than later that I was not the squib they thought me to be, specially since the time for my Hogwarts letter to arrive was not far away. Being able to live with Sirius would mean I would be out of their magic hating reach before I could suffer its consequences.

Simply put, it was perfect, and from Walburga’s stance I certainly believed she would agree with me.

“Do what you must, Walburga. Contact the Malfoys when the mourning period for Abraxas ends and seek Lucius’ help, negotiate for it even if you have to bring your status as Narcissa’s relative up. If there is something the man values more than blood purity or power it’s family after all.” I gave out a laugh, “Well, I certainly do not need to give you this pieces of advice. You understand the inner goings of such type of manoeuvring better than most.”

I could see a faint blush on Walburga’s cheeks, which actually endeared her a little bit more to me. The amount of human emotions she had displayed today was so contradicting with what Sirius had told me of his childhood, as well as with what I had witnessed when she was a mere portrait.

“Of course, Marvolo”, she said with a satisfied look. “I will do my best.” And I had no doubt that she would. Even if she had not cared about Sirius’ fate, which was clear she did, no Black would willingly go along with someone else’s deceive and attempts to fool them the way Moody pretended. Not unless there was something they could gain from it.

I actually felt some respect for this family’s way of thinking.

“And don’t forget, Walburga, that no one is to know about me”, I let the seriousness of my order clear to be noticed in my voice. “As far as you are concerned, you never met Harry Potter nor are you aware of your Lord’s return. The war depends on your… discretion.”

She nodded, well aware of the necessity of her silence. “How will I keep you updated on the ongoings? Can you be reached by owl?”

“Better not to test that theory. I fear that my letters are being redirected to Dumbledore, which is as much of a pain as it is a relieve” I commented. “The idea of dealing with Potter’s fan mail and cursed letters while without a wand, and in a muggle household at that, sends shivers down my spine.” And it was actually true. I would be a hassle in years to come, but for now it was one less problem to deal with. “I will come by from time to time, probably on Saturdays, so you can tell me the last important happenings. More into the future, when your son is back with you, we will have to look for an alternate method but for now it will do.”

“Understood. Will that be all, Marvolo?” she asked me.

“There is still one last thing, Walburga.” I said while standing up. “I would like to have access to the Black library, if I may. There are some matters I still have to research”, and we both knew that it was more of an order than a request.

“Of course. I will lead you there” she answered while walking through the door, her stance that of a proper pureblood once again.

As we went up the stairs my eyes glanced discreetly around, trying to catch Kreacher in the dark corners of the corridor. I really feared he would uncover my role as a fake Dark Lord, and that was something I really did have no desire to let happen. I wanted to have a chance to talk with before he had the time to alert his mistress, once I was behind the closed doors of the library.

“Walburga, you do have a house elf, don’t you?” I asked with as much nonchalance I could pretend.

“Yes, Marvolo. Do you require his assistance?”, and before I could answer she had already called the elf, who immediately appeared with a pop. “Kreacher! Do whatever our Lord asks of you while he stays in our home. He is the most noble guest we have ever had, and you will treat him as such, understood?”

The creature looked at me with wariness in his eyes, but still nodded in acknowledgement. 

“Yes, mistress”, he said.

Satisfied, Walburga turned around and opened the door to the library, letting me go inside right before her. 

To say that the place was marvellous would be an understatement. It was bigger than I remembered, and I could only guess that parts of it had been hidden during my stay at the Black household. And the books, there were more of them than ever before, their colours and shapes so different and various, but all inviting to be read. If that was a magical effect or a mere visual one, I could not tell. Maybe it was just me, being confused by my own excitement at such a great display of knowledge.

Still, the amazed look in my face must have been plain to see for Walburga, and without another word she went away, closing the door behind her.

I stood firmly in place for some minutes letting the sight enthrall me, and was woken up from my reverie when I saw Kreacher looking at me with distrustful eyes from the other side of the room. 

I let out a sigh but kept my eyes from rolling. It was time to confront the elf, even if I would have prefered to put it off for as long as I could. Still, mountains of books were waiting for me to read them, and the temptation was difficult to ignore.

Yes, I thought whilst taking a book from the shelve, Kreacher could wait for a little while. 

And with that I immersed myself in this newfound source of knowledge, forgetting anything else for the next few hours.


	6. Chapter V

Just as I had expected, hours passed by without me noticing. But it wasn’t something a quick Tempus could not solve. Not that I really needed to cast it though, because from the cramps in my legs I could tell that I had been sitting in the library for more than was healthy. Which translated to five hours settled on the couch in indian position. I actually could not feel my lower limbs anymore.

I put the essay on magical theory on the pile of already perused books and stood up carefully, not wanting to embarrass myself by falling down on my unsteady legs. Once I was sure my lower body would not fail me I started to pace slowly through the room, eyeing the paintings that hung on the walls and the mysterious artifacts that lay on the shelves. There were a lot of the latter yet all of them beautifully made and expensive looking, inviting to be closely examined. Still, I had no idea what their purpose was and anyone with a modicum of common self such as myself would know to better than approach those things, no matter how shiny and mysterious they looked.

Least of all, not when lacking a wand, an item which sooner or later I would have to get.

The truth was that I feared the dependance that I could develop if I bought myself a wand. There was a reason why, even when wandless magic was a common ability among wizards, the use of a wand was not recommended until the age of eleven. Using it before then could difficult the usage of one's magic without relying on it, rendering all previous efforts to naught.

Then again, having a wand would be more than useful. As much as I had practiced until then my wandless control, there were still spells that were beyond my abilities at the moment, and maybe would still be in the future too.

I was not almighty after all, no matter how I sometimes wished I was nor how much others had thought me to be so.

It was a fact though, that I had not yet reached my full potential either, so who knew what I would be capable of doing as my magical core grew larger and more controlled.

Last time I had definitely been far worse at wandless than I was now, only succeeding completely in minor charms and transfigurations, as well as some defensive shields, too.

Truth be told, the already noticeable difference in skill between both my lives was outstanding and certainly unsettling.

I was aware that a greater control could be achieved, that a higher level of prowess could be mastered. For instance, and remembering what Dumbledore showed me about him, Riddle had had since birth such an intimate link with his magic that he could command it to do whatever he desired. No spells nor knowledge on magical theory. Just pure willpower.

It was incredible only to imagine, being able control your magic with just a twist of you wrist or a thought on your mind.

The laws of Magic could be defied, if only one desired so.

Or that was what I was inclined to believe, because the sheer possibility of it made me feel like a child again, quivering with wondering amazement.

During the few times we met though, I could not remember a single instance in which Riddle had used this ability, the same which had marked his stay at the orphanage, long before the wizarding world had been disclosed to him. If it had actually vanished or if Riddle had just wanted to hide it and use it as a last resort in battle, I did not know.

But still, there was a certain feeling of envy I could not make disappear. What I would not give to learn that particular form of wandless magic. The convenience of it would be incredible, and being aware of what I was unable to do only emphasised the difference between Riddle’s magic and mine. If I, for instance, wanted to turn a match into a needle, I would have to think of the incantation in my mind before achieving it. Riddle only had to command his magic to do what he desired.

Merlin, how amazing was that?

Then again, I did not know for sure, but I suspected that Riddle's skill was something only a few through the whole history of Magic were able to do, something to the likes of parselmagic.

But they were only suspicions, in the end.

The fact was that not much information on wandless magic existed anymore, or at least there hadn't been in my old time line. The tomes on it had been retired from the bookstores and the rest, steadily confiscated through the years by the Ministry, starting when the Law for the Prohibition of Underage Magic was enacted just a few centuries ago.

In our days, it had become so rare to be able do wandless magic that it was regarded as a demonstration of tremendous power, something that could not be learned and was only to be wielded by those few who were born with the ability.

Which was actually a lot of bullshit, and just showed how uncultured and ignorant our society had become.

Still, the fact remained that almost all information on the matter had disappeared, one of the only times the Ministry had actually been efficient in accomplishing its tasks.

The the only books on wandless magic I had found in my adulthood were those kept hidden in private family libraries, specifically in one of the secret rooms in Malfoy Manor.

It was through Draco's endless generosity, which he only showed from time to time, that I had read about the various theories regarding wandless magic. I had actually quite enjoyed my research back then, contrasting the different ways people thought magic worked.

But none of them completely satisfied me.

Some authors said the ability had to be practiced daily, trained like a muscle to its maximum capacity. The difference between wandless and the metaphorical muscle lay, if the theory was to be trusted, in the fact that wandless magic grew exponentially the more you used it. In words of the author, your core would grow unlimited and your power would be infinite, all thanks to frequent practice. The wizard that theorised it was clearly a very optimistic fellow, more than was healthy I wagered.

A second and different theory claimed the magical core to be immutable, for each witch or wizard were supposedly born with a fixed amount of power which limits remained unchanged through their whole lives. What the author meant was that if the greatest, wandless feat you could achieve as a child was to levitate a stick, you would be stuck with that level of magic until the day of your death.

Of course, this last theory was in later years proved absolutely wrong, specifically when it became obvious that a magical core experimented a steady growth that reached its apex at adulthood.

No praises could be said about the first theory either, for it was ridiculous in its pretensions. If a person could reach an exorbitant amount of power just by practicing their wandless skills, there would have been much more incredible feats of magic back then when it was still allowed to learn it. And taking into account the records of those times, people before the prohibition had been, in average, just as powerful as they were now. The only difference was the lack of the dependance on a wand, and even that had its own limits.

In my humble opinion, formed after a lot of thought on the matter, both philosophies had a bit of truth in them in what regarded the connection between power levels and wandless skills.

One could practice from an early age and master a level of control in his own magic that would make its usage easier and more efficient, but the exact extension of one's abilities was probably limited by the power in each of our cores, and related to the time of our lives it was used.

Maybe though, there was a third factor that could be added to the equation, which was the innate affinity one had in wielding wandlessly. Riddle was a clear example of that.

And thinking of it, maybe even a fourth factor could be taken into account.

I was certain that the nature of the incantation one was using would influence the easiness with which a witch or wizard could cast it. It was the classical separation between light and dark oriented cores and the affinity each of them had with specific branches of Magic, being the grey ones the only fortunate enough to successfully cast both types.

If Dumbledore had not messed with my core, I would be one of the latter. But as things now were, my magic was as white and brilliant as a patronus.

Tragically, it seemed that the British wizarding society had long forgotten that each of us felt more at ease in using a certain type of spells. The reigning belief was that each branch of magic represented the same level of difficulty for everyone, no matter the actual affinity of one’s core.

The situation was maddening, specially when the whole Hogwarts curriculum was composed by light oriented spells, for it meant that some wizards would never feel the rightness of wielding magic affined to their own cores. They would always feel something missing, unable to pinpoint what it is.

How this prejudice against the Dark Arts had started, I could only guess. At some point in time I was sure both Arts had been practiced equally and revered for what they were, two parts of a whole, a perfect balance for each of those sides had their own good and bad aspects and Magic could not exist without both.

In this regard, Riddle had been right. There was no good or evil, there was only power, a power we had been gifted by Magic and allowed to use as we desired.

Yet this simple notion was something that escaped today's Wizarding society. Numerous kinds of Magic had been banned for a reason or another, most of them under the pretext of being only being capable of damage and destruction.

It was so wrong it hurt, and the cause for this prejudice was nowhere to be found.

I had navigated for countless hours the family libraries of some of my past followers and even the one at Hogwarts, when I had yet to start my crusade for the Dark Arts. All that research had ended up being fruitless, for even several years later I still had to get my hands on a single historical book that could enlighten me on the reasons for the deep discrimination that reigned in British wizarding society.

The cause might not seem important to many, taking into account the number of centuries we had already lived with that type of mindset. Still, I needed to know because unlike everyone else, I was perfectly aware of the consequences such behaviour would bring in years to come.

It was not a brilliant and peaceful future the one that awaited us, and every single bit of information about how our present was forged or the possible ways to prevent the tragedy that would inevitably happen were invaluable to me.

The events that would take place in the future were after all intimately linked to our history, and it was this secular attitude of discrimination the same that would destabilise Magic for good if no one were to prevent it.

That fact, though, went completely unnoticed for when the signs started to appear and everything indicated that something unwanted was about to happen, no one even batted an eyelid.

Coincidence, read the Ministry's official statement, a bunch of happenstances that would surely revert themselves given time.

And they left it at that, never bothering to investigate any further.

Thus, Magic began to disappear in a gradual and steady process that people chose to ignore. The sudden and vast amount of squibs that were born, always more each year that passed, or the fact that it had been half a decade since the last muggleborn had been admitted into Hogwarts. Not even when each witch's and wizard's power started to obviously decrease and they were incapable of successfully casting more complex spells, had they been worried. Bothered, yes. Annoyed, absolutely, but never concerned for the reason it was happening.

No one wanted to see the truth, and nobody wanted to admit they had been wrong in their previous beliefs. The ones of us who knew and had tried to prevent this from happening were so few in the end, only a handful of hopeful yet deluded fools with no chance of succeeding. 

Of course, it had all started in Britain. We were the only magical community that enforced this separation between light and dark, the only one in the World to ban entire branches of Magic in the name of prejudice and stupidity.

Then the signs of Magic's instability and decay started to spread beyond the borders of our islands. There were ghosts that suddenly disappeared in different parts of Europe, artifacts in Asia that lost their powers, and the rituals performed by shamans in South America stopped having effects.

When this events started to take place all over the globe, other governments with more common sense than ours began to investigate and it soon became clear that what we were witnessing was the death of Magic.

A wide number of experts in every possible field were promptly appointed to investigate the causes of it, as well as hopefully find a way to reverse its effects. It didn’t take long for them to notice the zero zone to be our country.

As soon as this information became known, the International Confederation of Wizards intervened in Britain, taking control of the Ministry and abolishing the same laws I had fought so hard against.

They tried everything they could to restore the balance in magic we had so thoroughly destroyed, finally allowing again the usage of the previously forbidden branches of Magic. They even brought dark oriented witches and wizards from all over the world, in hopes that the balance could be restored if there was an increase of dark magic being cast there were everything started.

The idea behind it was that, if the imbalance had been caused by only using light magic in our lands, then compensating by casting a large amount of dark spells would surely return things to their previous state.

The notion had merit, of course, but it was already too late, and their efforts failed just the same way I had.

By the time someone finally decided to take a closer look on the matter, the situation had already been irremediable. The rip we had caused in Magic had already spread like a disease through the whole globe, unstoppable and without cure.

The last stage of this regrettable chain of events brought with it the indiscriminate death of every magical creature, no matter where they found themselves when the time of their demise came. Plants and herbs of all magical varieties dried out and disappeared, never to be cultivated again. But as tragic as it had been, what most hurt our world was the final loss of power each wizard and witch suffered, turning them all into common muggles.

Of course, the problems did not end with the death of Magic.

We had no way to hide ourselves anymore and thus, in the eyes of those who had not known of our existence, from one day to another millions of people suddenly appeared, all of them without identification or knowledge of how to survive in their world.

All the buildings that had until then been hidden under protection wards suddenly were in plain sight for everyone to see, including the lands where creatures had previously been kept, living in some semblance of freedom.

Muggles were confused when they found corpses of mermaids on their shores, dead dragons there were reserves had once been, and red caps in ancient, ruined buildings.

Chaos started.

Those who had been wizards were in despair, disoriented like children without a gentle guide, while muggles were in a state of absolute confusion, not having a clue were so many unknown people had popped up from. And the dragons, for Merlin's sake, they had been the main talk for months among them.

And all of it had been our fault. The British wizarding community had turned its back on Magic, and every single magical being on earth had suffered its consequences.

Some of the people I had begged to listen to my claims, back then during my campaign, the same ones that had looked at me with digust, the word  _ traitor _ on their lips and their heads turned the other way. Those people had needed this absolute catastrophe to happen to finally see the wrong in their beliefs and, for some reason, came begging now for my forgiveness. I sent every single one of them back on their way, for it wasn't me they had wronged in the end and even if I was, I would have not found it in me to forgive anymore, specially them.

It had taken months for the major part of the Weasleys to knock on my door too. In a twist of irony, they now wanted to hear what I had to say, trying to plead their case and use the past connection we had shared to get the answers they should have listened to years ago.

We are so sorry, they said, but we are still family and you owe us at least a chance to explain.

I laughed so hard at that statement, yet it was the laughter of a cynical man in a destroyed world and too much resentment in his soul. The Weasleys, though, blind even at that moment in time, looked hopeful at the sound of my voice, as if expecting me to really hear them out.

That stupid bunch didn't understand that the chance to explain had been lost a long time ago, together with the life of two of my children. My sweet, amazing children they had so good as killed themselves when they sold their location to the aurors.

I almost ended their miserable existence right there and no one would have stopped me. Then again, they would suffer more knowing what their actions had brought upon them, how they had helped in condemning us all, so I made them forget I was alive and made them leave.

Because yes, I still had my powers left intact. I should have known that the impossible always applies to me.

Still, there were other ones who had mysteriously kept some of the abilities they had before the Death of Magic, or as we started to call it, the Big D, which stood for the Big Death.

Dudley must have laughed himself silly when he first heard that name.

I, however, did not. It just reminded me of a miserable childhood and the failure of my self imposed mission, all in one.

Why I had retained my powers was still something I wondered, but I never told a soul. I didn't want anyone to get a loose tongue, after all, making me the center of unwanted attention again.

The few others who had kept part of their abilities were not as clever, though. The group was uniquely composed by seers, and some of them proved themselves to be stupid enough to brag about how they could still make occasional prediction. Most of them had a terrible end, either killed by jealousy, religious fanatics or in the name of science.

One of them survived though. She came to me when circumstances had gotten calmer, and seeing her on my doorstep came as a surprise. I had almost forgotten about her, but it seemed that she had followed my steps closely from the very beginning. We talked for hours which later became days, and the conversation never seemed to end. The present was discussed, the past was brought up, and the woman comforted me when I cried like a child for my failure and the loss of my family. Both the one I didn't get to know and the one I had created and loved more than life itself.

Her presence brought me a peace I had longed for the last years, and the information she shared with me gave me once again a sense of purpose that my life had lacked since the Big Death.

The knowledge I came to possess through her made me also understand things which had previously been heavy questions on my mind, and I came to know the reason my powers had not disappeared, or how I could reshape the past to avoid this state of things. How I could save the ones I loved.

Still, she did not tell me everything, for I had to wait for my rebirth before some parts could be disclosed.

Saying that I felt the most grateful and joyful among men was an understatement, and I obviously accepted her offer of going back in time whichever the cost.

And here I was now, trying to understand more of how we came to be the prejudiced society we now were and still without a proper plan to put in action.

I felt like I needed someone to guide me, to point me the way I should go to avoid failure this time. I felt lost.

The whole situation gave me a sense of  frustration but, truth be told, it didn't feel as horrible as my first task had been, when I had been entrusted with Voldemort’s destruction.

Maybe it was because I knew what time would bring if I didn't succeed, or maybe because I was more mature and aware of my capabilities. Back then I had been a confused child with no real knowledge of magic, after all. Still, it could also be related to the lack of public expectations on this matter, or simply because it was my decision and not that of another.

Whatever the reason, I felt confident that I could do it. It would be hard and, as I said, frustrating, but I would succeed this time, whatever Fate decided to throw my way.

That's why I was here, in the end, scanning the shelves for something that could give me information and ideas. Still, I was unable to find a book on horcruxes no matter how hard I looked. I had already looked everywhere and not a single tome on soul magic was on view. Even the ones on Wizarding history, specifically those who talked about Herpo the Foul, seemed to have vanished into thin air.

And I was really interested in Herpo, the wizard who had been recorded as the first to ever create a horcrux.

But the books had disappeared and I guessed it was time to stop procrastinating the inevitable, no matter how little my desire to face it.

I looked around the library until my eyes settled on Kreacher, who was still watching me in distrust from the same dark corner he had been in since Walburga left. His eyes did not leave me while I put my strongest silencing charms on the door, and I mentally prepared for my next conversation with the creature.

"Kreacher" I called while sitting back again on the green couch I had used since I came. "Let's have a chat. Come here." I signaled for him to stand right in front of me, and the elf reluctantly obeyed my order.

"What can Kreacher do for Master guest Potter?" He asked me, his tone making it clear that he would prefer for me to leave him alone to sulk in his lonely corner.

His question, though, told me exactly where I had to begin this conversation.

"Let's start with the reason why you call me Potter and not Riddle, Marvolo or Voldemort" I said, but I got no answer. Then again, I had not asked a real question. "Why do you do it?"

It was a good thing for me that house elves could not disobey a direct order, and since Walburga had made it clear that he had to comply with whatever I asked for, Kreacher was forced to answer my questions even though he clearly desired he didn't.

"Because you are not Master Dark Lord, Master Lying Guest", the elf said going straight to the point, unaware of the dread his answer had filled me with.

Merlin, there went my good luck. If he told Walburga the truth I would have to start from the very beginning and, truthfully, this was the best plan I had come up with until now. The situation had to be turned around to my advantage and, as I watched Kreacher in silence, I tried to decide on the best course of action.

"Tell me Kreacher, how do you know that I'm not who I claimed to be? And what do you actually know about me?" I asked with some nonchalance that could not totally mask how uncomfortable I had become.

I waited for him to respond, the silence stretching for a few seconds in which the elf kept on looking at me as if assessing my worth in some way that escaped my comprehension.

"Master Lying Guest is as old as Master Lord should be, and Master Guest’s magic has part of Master Lord in it but is not the same”, he stated, and as if the second reason was not as important he added “And I can detect when someone is lying to Mistress."

I sighed again, something I noticed I had been doing a lot that day. So elfs were not so different from goblins in their abilities, in the end. Goddes, things could have gone so wrong if Walburga had asked Kreacher to verify the truth of my claims. I could only thank her for not having thought of it.

Still, I did not know yet the reason Kreacher had kept silence when I first arrived to Grimmauld Place.

My eyes focused on the creature’s once again, trying to ascertain the effect my questions had on him as they were posed. "You knew I was lying then, but why did you not warn her from the very beginning?"

To my surprise, the elf seemed embarrassed and looked down, twisting his hands in some nervous tick. He muttered something under his breath I could not understand, too low for my ears to catch.

"Repeat that, a little louder this time." I asked, puzzled by this so out of character like behaviour. Kreacher was not, and had never been, shy.

Without looking back up, the elf continued on torturing his fingers by twisting them but raised his voice enough for me to hear this time. "Master Guest made Mistress happy. Mistress had not been happy in a long time."

I remained silent, expecting him to continue with the real reason for his behaviour yet the words never came.

"That's it?" I asked, feeling a deep bewilderment I hoped did not show too much on my face. Was it really so easy to get along with a house elf, just by being nice to their Head of Family? Oh my goodness, had I know this years before I would have put this knowledge to good use, focusing my efforts there instead of trying to be overly kind to the house elf himself.

My bafflement must have been still easy to notice, for Kreacher looked at me with some anger at my reaction and courtly answered, some of his annoyance showing in that simple word.

"Yes", he confirmed.

"Okay" the inner workings of an elf's mind were still so strange to me, yet I was certainly not going to complain this time around. Still, his previous decision on keeping the secret from Walburga did not mean that everything would go smoothly from then on. Something else than a little bit of gratitude was needed for it.

"I guess that doesn't mean you trust me, do you?" I asked yet it was more of a statement than it was a question.

The answer this time was immediate for the elf did not need to dwell on that particular matter.

“No."

And I had not expected anything else, really. The truth was, I did not need his trust in order of getting my hands on the books I wanted, but it would be extremely useful if I could rely on his willing help instead of his forced assistance. It would also mean that my paranoia levels could relax a bit, not having to live with the constant fear of Kreacher spilling the whole truth to Walburga in some random burst of concern.

It was fortunate that I knew exactly how to get my way.

"Well, I do trust you", I stated. "At least, I trust you enough to seek your help on some matters as well as to offer advice in regards of... the task Master Regulus bestowed upon you."

That got his attention in a way nothing else could. His eyes widened like saucers and his toothy mouth slacked and closed as he tried to make sense of what I had just said.

"How do you know about Master Regulus? Nobody knows!" He shouted. Still, his voice itself brought back his sense of decorum, reminding him who he was talking to. Dark Lord or not, in the eyes of the house elf I was still  _ Master _ , and no matter how much he disliked it his own Mistress had ordered him to treat me with respect.

"Well, I do”, I said while interrupting his thought process, too afraid that Kreacher would start punishing himself for his slip. “And I will help you if you give me the books Regulus used, the ones regarding horcruxes and soul magic. Do we have a deal, Kreacher?"

But I did not get a verbal answer for the elf disappeared with a pop as soon as I finished.

For a few seconds I feared the worst, looking at the door and waiting for Walburga to storm in hexing me into next week and beyond, demanding my head to be put next to the house elves'. How had I messed up so wrong?

But then, and I thanked the Goddess for it, another pop interrupted the silence of the library and Kreacher appeared with a stack of books which he left at my feet.

"Here are the books Master guest wants. Will Master be telling about Master Regulus?" The eagerness in his voice could barely be contained.

"Yes. But first I need to know what Regulus told you." He gave me a betrayed look. "I swear I will give you my advice once you tell me, but I have to be sure about what exactly he ordered you to do." Because what if the elf was aware of the intimate connection between the locket and the Dark Lord's horcrux? As far as I had been told last time, Kreacher only knew who it belonged to, whose magic was on the locket. The fact that a piece of Voldemort's soul was housed in there should be unknown to him. But then again, I did not need to a repeat of the whole story. “You don’t have to tell me what happened with the Dark Lord in that cave. Only what happened with Regulus interests me.”

Kreacher seemed to be doubting the necessity of him telling me the events of that day, but finally seemed to gather some courage needed to narrate it. Still, it was with a mournful expression that he started to talk.

“When the Dark Lord left Kreacher in the cave, Master Regulus called and Kreacher obeyed. He then ordered Kreacher to never tell a soul about what had happened. Master Regulus went to his room and did not go out again for some days.” At this point, tears started to form in his eyes and I could relate to that feeling for I knew what was going to happen next. “When Master Regulus finally left his room, he made Kreacher bring him back to the cave and there Master Regulus drank the poison.”

Suddenly, the elf’s eyes connected with mine and it seemed as if he had abruptly had an epiphany. What actually had happened in his head though, was a mystery to me.

“Master Regulus told me go back home, leave him there and never tell anyone”, and the grief in which it was said did not distract me from the other cause for Kreacher’s distress. He thought he was going against Regulus’ orders, being disloyal to him by telling me.

"I already know all that, Kreacher, so you are technically not disobeying his order."

"He gave me the evil locket. Told me to destroy it he did." Kreacher started to cry in earnest at this point, and I wondered if I would make everyone burst in tears that day. Again, the need to comfort was strong and it saddened me to know that two such lonely creatures as Kreacher and Walburga lived together yet still so miserable, each of them in their own particular world grief.

"The dead…”, he said while tears fell from his eyes, barely understandable under the hiccups his cry had induced. “The bodies took Master Regulus to the water and Kreacher left him there. Kreacher didn't want to, but he made me!"

This was the second time in my life I was having this same conversation with the elf, the first time having been back then when I was seventeen. Neither then nor now did I know how to treat the creature in his grief.

"It's okay, Kreacher. You did what he wanted. You are a good elf”, I said while patting his head gently.

But my poor attempts at calming him only seemed to make him cry louder than before.

"Kreacher is not! I couldn't destroy the evil locket. It's too strong" he shouted.

"I know that, Kreacher”, I stated with a calm demeanour. “I will help you with it."

Kreacher’s whole body seemed to perk up at my offer, even while trying hard not be mislead by my words.

"Really?", he asked with those tennis sized eyes shining with unspilled tears.

"Yes, but I have to explain something to you first. What Regulus wanted to destroy was the evil in the locket, so that it could be normal once again” and I hoped that this explanation would serve my future purposes. “Do you understand the difference?"

The creature thought for a few seconds and then, carefully, he said "Kreacher thinks he does. Not destroy the locket but the magic in the locket"

Wasn’t I good at explaining. "That's it, Kreacher. Well, I know a way to get it done but I won't be able to do it right now. You will have to wait for a few years maybe, but I will do you that favour, okay?"

"So grateful, great Master Guest. Kreacher will be forever thankful!" And from the look in his eyes I could tell that he was, indeed, grateful in extreme. Loyal, as well.

"Okay, then for now you have to keep the locket, put it somewhere safe where it cannot be found. Tell no one where it is except for myself, if I ever ask you in the future. Is that understood?" And as I said those words I realised that too many secrets were being created that day. First Walburga, and now her house elf.

I just hoped both of they could keep them.

"Yes, Master guest Potter" the creature promised. "Kreacher will not tell a soul."

"Perfect. You have been a great help to me and to Regulus." I said earnestly, because the truth was that his help was invaluable to me. While I looked at the pile of books, though, a completely different and unrelated matter passed through my mind.

"If I were to take this" I pointed at the stack of tomes "with me, would some kind if alarm be set off? Or would the books be returned to the library as soon as I step out the building? I mean there has to be some kind of system in place to prevent people from stealing them." I couldn't have Walburga knowing about this particular research, after all.

It was embarrassing, really, not knowing the answer to that question when I had spent so much time in Grimmauld Place for a reason or another. I had read some books in here during the other timeline, but I had never taken them home with me. The again, the few ones that were left after the Order's  _ cleaning _ of the house had not been interesting enough for me to take with, and from what I saw now there seemed to have been books in hidden shelves I had not known existed.

"There are no alarms on  Master Regulus' books, Master guest." The elf said. "Master Regulus took them off and kept them in his room."

"Perfect.” I said. “I will take this ones with me, then,  so I can help you with the locket business. Is that alright?" The poor elf seemed torn between letting me do whatever I deemed necessary and protecting the belongings of his house. "I will take good care of them, don't you worry about that. No one will even notice I took them" I assured him, trying to calm his doubts.

He seemed to think about it for some minutes, debating with himself if he could really trust me with his Mistress' property. "Master guest can take them if he promises to bring them back and not damage them", he said after reaching a conclusion.

"Great." I shrank the stack of books and put them in my pocket together with the ones I had bought in Diagon Alley that same morning.

"I think I will take my leave now. The muggles will start to miss me if I don't go home in the next hour", I said while standing up. Do you know where Walburga is?" I asked as an afterthought. I really should start to remember that this was not  _ my _ Grimmauld Place, but Walburga’s. Different time, different owner.

"Mistress is in her room, resting."

"I won't bother her, then. Tell her I will come back in two weeks ,and that she should start forming a plan to get Sirius out of prison. We are not foolish Gryffindors, after all." I said with some irony and, in truth, I was no reckless lion anymore. I had not been one for decades.

"Kreacher will do as Master guest says" the creature confirmed.

I then gave the elf a parting nod and walked out of the room, making my way to Privet Drive again.


	7. Chapter VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you start reading, I just wanted to say a few things. The last time I posted was almost a year ago and there are reasons for this. The most important among them are personal and to a lesser degree, professional, but another relevant reason is the fact that I am not very comfortable with the style I have been using when writing this fic. I am not used to write in first person, and the almost "stream of consciousness" style I have employed so far is not ideal to write long fics like the one I have in mind. Still, I made up my mind and thought "what the hell, let's continue and see where it goes". And therefore here I am.
> 
> This chapter is kind of a filler, actually. Nothing relevant happens plot-wise, but I still thought it to be interesting since it delves in Harry's personality and his relationship with the Dursleys. The most controversial thing in this Chapter are Harry's thoughts on the neglect he suffered during his first life. It may offend some of you, or maybe you will agree with his point of view, I'm not really sure, but before you decide to tear me a new one you ought to know this: Harry's inner musings are actually inspired by a real person's experience. One of my friends' parents died when they were a child, so they were put under the "care" of their grandparents and suffered a great deal of neglect. We talked about what happened to them and how they were able to overcome the memories, what they thought was the worst that could have happened, and what they told me is fundamentally what I tried to write in this Chapter. You may not agree, or maybe you will, but this comes from a first hand story and as much as I would love for you to give me your own point of view on the matter, do so in a civil manner. Please.

The next few months went by without much progress in my plans. I visited Walburga a number of times since our first meeting, and even though we had already outlined various ways of getting Sirius out of Azkaban, none of those plans could be put in motion until the Malfoy patriarch passed away and the family had had a reasonable time to mourn his death. To be honest with myself, there was no real need for Abraxas to die for us to enact our plans, yet I had come to care enough about the Malfoys that I didn't want to cut short the little time Abraxas had left to be with his family. Giving Lucius a task he would feel obligated to do, like getting Sirius out of prison, would make him spend more time at the Ministry and less time at home.

Then again, I could safely admit to myself that that was not the only reason I had for waiting, since I needed Lucius to use his connections and political talents with well balanced cunning. A distracted faux pas, one single mistake made by telling the wrong person about my godfather's incarceration without a trial and Sirius could have his soul sucked in attempt to cover it all up. That was definitely not something I wanted, and if I had to wait for Lucius to not be concerned and distracted by his father's dying state in order for things to go like I wished, that's what I would have to do.

Of course, that didn't mean that I liked waiting all that much, but other things could be accomplished in the meantime, and my amount of self-imposed little tasks helped fighting the dullness of the neighbourhood known as Privet Drive.

With the heavy load of reading material I had brought back from that eventful Saturday in Diagon Alley, I had no time left for the quietness of the place to bore me. I spent the days reading and studying every book I had obtained, gathering as much information as possible and training my wandless magic until I no longer needed to mentally recite the incantations, letting it act on instincts.

My days started early on with meditation in order to perfect my Occlumency shields and organize my thoughts, an activity that was followed by cooking breakfast while the Dursleys were still asleep. I would then go alone to school like the good kid I was, going straight to the solitude the local library offered me until closing time.

On weekends I had all the time to myself. I would either lock myself in my bedroom or go to the library to read until dinner, making a quick break for lunch in between. I was pretty satisfied with this newfound routine and the thoughtful solitude I could immerse myself in when in my bedroom. None of the Dursleys bothered me during that time, especially with all the anti-muggles and notice-me-not charms I daily casted on my door. As soon as they came to investigate my whereabouts, they suddenly remembered something urgent they had to do who knows where and left me to enjoy the quietness of my solitude.

At first there had been some problems since Petunia, who was not as stupid as she made herself to be, quickly noticed that I was never on sight. The few times she had actually remembered me and went to check my whereabouts, she promptly forgot her intentions and had the sudden urge to be somewhere else.

She actually confronted me one morning, waking up at a ridiculous early hour to disclose what I was up to. She hadn't seen me for a week by then. What followed was a short yet terribly awkward silence, at least for me, where I tried to come up with a credible excuse about what I did during the day and why she couldn't enter my room. I had to come up on the spot with a good enough reason as to why I, a seven year old kid, never seemed to be at home, but despite the ability to think on my feet I had been gifted with, I could not come up with a good enough excuse to give her.

Here I was, thinking myself so clever with my power and plans just to be outsmarted by Petunia Dursley of all people.

What did children my age do when not at home? But more importantly, what did normal kids do that could explain my prolonged absence from Dursley household? The library could not always be used as an excuse, and no matter how well they had accepted my studious tendencies I could not constantly justify my absence with an ever growing desire for literature. That was just not the way things worked at Privet Drive. I tried to remember then what my own childhood had consisted of when I was at school, and before I could stop myself the words came out of my mouth.

"I run", I told my horse of an aunt, and from the way she stopped glaring at me I knew she had not expected that.

Her eyes narrowed just a little bit, enough to express her scepticism at my seemingly random answer. "What do you mean you run?"

Think, Harry, damnit!

"I… I run with the older boys. At school. Sometimes." Way to go, Potter, I thought to myself.

"That is still not an acceptable answer, boy! Why would you need to run with the older boys?"

And wasn't that a good question. There was no decent explanation for my supposed behaviour, and I sheepishly looked at the floor while biting my lips. There had to be a reasonable activity that involved children running around through the school grounds, I just had to remember it!

"Well?", Petunia asked with a sneer clear on her face. "I want that answer now, brat, unless you are lying to me…"

Fuck it.

"I want to join the track team!", I blurted out.

"What?"

"I want to join the track team. When I'm older." That was a good excuse as any other. "The older boys go running after school sometimes. They do competitions, like real competitions, with medals and stuff, and they told me that when I'm older I can join the team!"

Petunia regarded me with a small amount of surprise and a larger dose of suspicion, but even she had to admit that my excuse was believable. Well, somewhat believable. It was not strange for younger kids to try to imitate the cool boys at school, after all, or at least that was what I was trying to tell myself.

She kept looking at me, waiting for me to break under her gaze and admit that I was lying, but I had endured worse stares throughout my life and knew how to keep undaunted under her pitiful attempt.

"Very well", she finally said, but then she added "I will talk to your teacher to see if it's alright for you to spend so much time with those boys", and I took those words as the warning they were, since I had no doubt in my mind that Petunia could and would go to my school just to confirm what I told her. That could be troublesome, but not enough to worry about. Some small mind magic and her intentions would soon be forgotten.

Now that the small matter of my absence had been dealt with, the second part of her interrogation began. It was even more difficult to answer than the first, for what could I tell this suspicious woman to explain why she was literally incapable of coming near my room? It took some time to calm her down and convince her that no, aunt Petunia, nothing out of the ordinary was taking place, that certainly no kind of freakish magic was involved but, much to my amusement, I had to use magic for her to believe me and stop asking questions. A silent Confundus did the trick nicely.

Still, from that day onwards I made an effort to be seen at least once a day by the Dursleys, usually at dinner. Sometimes the whole situation around the kitchen table felt surreal to me. My mind had decades ago associated the place with totally different feelings than the ones I was experiencing now.

Privet Drive as a whole had many connotations for me, and none of them were happy ones. Each time I walked its streets I remembered those times the neighbours had looked at me with distrust, checking if their wallets were still in their pockets because, everybody be careful, the local criminal was just a few steps away. The fact that I had been six years old, in the literal sense of the word, when the rumors started to spread was not minded by any of them.

When in school I sometimes still watched over my shoulder, expecting Dudley and his gang to come up to me and start Harry-hunting again. And each time I passed by the cupboard under the stairs I could not help but be reminded of the small, scared and terribly lonely child I had once been, wondering why my parents hadn't taken me with them when they died, leaving me instead in this little piece of hell where the only thing I felt was a hole inside of my chest.

While it was true that the Dursleys had never actually abused me in a physical way, with the exception of those couple of times Petunia had hit me in the head with her frying pan, I sometimes felt that the neglect with which they treated me had been worse. I wasn't in any way in need of being hurt by Vernon's meaty fists, mind you, but I could not help but wonder if suffering physical aggression could have woken inside of me some desire to fight back. Would I have grown up with a keener sense of self preservation, I often wondered, or would I have been even more broken than I had ended up being?

Being neglected, even as heavily as was my case, only succeeded in making me feel an insignificant child unworthy of love with a deep need to prove myself worthy of the care I so craved, even though I thought myself undeserving of that same love I so seeked.

One cannot predict what could have happened if my treatment at the Dursley's hand had included physical punishment, but I sometimes thought that I would have prefered an occasional broken bone but a healthy amount of self respect and fighting spirit rather than the emotional mess I had become after being ignored and forgotten in my cupboard for ten years of my life. In the end, even the insults the Dursleys had directed at me hadn't riled me up nor had they incited my anger, for I had come to believe that they were right, that it was my fault if they did not care for me, that if I only were not a freak and just another normal boy, I would finally deserve respect.

That kind of mentality followed me through all my years in Hogwarts and beyond, up until my adulthood when I finally came to accept myself and saw my treatment at the Dursleys for what it had been: not a well deserved loathing, but the irrational hate of narrow minded people who feared what they could not understand, and were too dependant of what society would think of them. In Petunia's case, it would not be strange to add an unresolved dose of jealousy to the amount of issues she had.

Still, it had all happened such a long time ago for me that being here again, in Privet Drive, felt almost like a novel experience to me. The memories of what my life had been in here felt so far away that, when I sat down with the Dursleys to have something as ordinary as dinner, I sometimes forgot how they had treated me all those decades ago.

I was tempted at times to simply ignore the memories in face of the almost care the Dursleys bestowed upon me now. Life with them was almost easy now, with me tutoring Dudley and Petunia occasionally asking about my wellbeing. Even Vernon treated me, even if not with the same love as his own son, at least with the deference he usually saved for Dudley's friends.

For Merlin's sake, I even got to have some clothes of my own instead of my fat cousin's hand-me-down's!

All in all, this time around I could be considered a somewhat healthy boy in possession of the correctly graduated glasses, new clothes my own size and an acceptable room where I could disappear into whenever I so desired. Had I been an actual seven year old kid, I would have almost felt at home even if a little less loved when compared to Dudley. My emotional baggage, at least, would have been significantly smaller.

The problem, though, was that neither was I that young anymore nor had my childhood been anything but miserable.

I wanted to hate the Dursleys for how they had made me suffer no matter how civil they were acting towards me now, I really did, but I could not gather that old resentment that had been my companion for decades anymore. I had experienced worse things during my more than sixty years of existence, and there were matters way more important to which direct my attention and energy.

Living with them was tolerable and temporary, so a part of me wanted to ignore the past and settle with planning to change that which I could actually do something about. At least for now, I always reminded myself, for even though my heart did not seek revenge like it had before, and despite the vast amount of time that had come to pass since I actually cared about this undesired part of my family, the truth was that somewhere deep inside I still longed for them to be punished.

It was because of this mindset of mine that no matter how bearable our relationship was and regardless of my healed childhood traumas, I did certainly not enjoy those evenings in which, out of necessity, I was required to socialize with my relatives.

The understanding I had now with them did not make up for their terrible table manners, which were almost on pair with those of Ronald Weasley. I watched silently as they ate their dinner, which I was fortunately not forced to cook this time around, and felt my appetite gradually disappear.

It was a hideous scene, yet it was outstanding how the two other males on the table behaved just like the pigs they physically resembled.

Petunia, on the other hand, ate with a learned and somewhat forced elegance that made one think she were in presence of the high English aristocracy instead of her own family. The contrast was so strong I really wondered how she could endure it. One would think Petunia would demand her husband and son the same restraint and manners she expected from herself, but alas, that did not seem to be the case.

Dinner for the Dursleys was just as much about eating as it was about Vernon's rambling while Petunia nodded in encouragement while Dudley watched Tv. As much as it disgusted me, I was unable to tear my eyes away from Vernon's face as he told his wife about the ongoings at his office while food was still in his mouth. Some pieces of barely chewed steak were stuck at the corners of his lips, barely by his moustache. He looked like the human version a walrus. I shivered at the thought and the movement seemed to attract Vernon's attention.

"Are you not going to finish it, boy?" I was never 'Harry' for Vernon, but the moniker still lacked the venom with which he had said it in the past.

"I'm not very hungry, uncle Vernon", I said and out of habit I took my plate and passed it for him to eat my share.

"Harry is keeping his eating on check, dear. He wants to enter the track team when he is older", she said in an attempt to appease her husband while her hand came to rest on his beefy forearm, trying to sooth him with a caress.

"The track team? That is full of shirtlifters." He locked his small, beady eyes with mine, as if by glance alone I could be sufficiently intimidated to never look at any man again. "I hope you are not one of those freaks, boy."

Of course I was. Partially, at least, but that bigoted idiot I had for an uncle did not deserve that kind of information. Instead I frowned slightly, with the appropriate amount of confusion that could be expected from an ignorant child.

"What is a shirtlifter?", I asked, purposely deaf to the curtness of his voice.

"A freak of nature, that's what they are." Vernon's fist hit the table with enough force to make the tableware rattle and the glasses come close to tipping over. "They are perverts the lot of them, flaunting their freakishness for everyone to see. They should be all put down like..."

"Vernon!" Petunia exclaimed. "He is too young to know about such things! And he can't possibly be one of those, what with having you as his role model, darling", she added in a futile attempt to divert the conversation to safer topics.

I really did not know why she tried. One would think she should know how her own husband's moods worked.

"Well, I don't know" Vernon grumbled under his breath. "With his blood he could be anything."

The silence that fell was only interrupted by the sound of the telly, and the tension could be cut with a butter knife. No one knew what to say. Vernon kept on eating the dinner on my plate while Petunia took a sip of water, probably wishing it was something stronger.

I kept my gaze firmly on my lap, knowing that any word or reaction on my part would be taken as a trigger for the situation to escalate. It wasn't actually that hard for me to reign on my famous temper, for after decades of hearing a variety of insults and accusations directed at me I had come to learn how to ignore any kind of provocation. But even then, a mild sliver of irritation could not be kept at bay from my thoughts.

Vernon's obvious insinuations about my sexuality were not insulting, no matter his opinion about homosexuals, and the occasional slur against my parents had stopped bothering me as much as it did in my youth. After all, worse words had been directed at me than the ill-constructed opinions of a narrow minded pig with too strong attachments to his own distorted moral code.

In a rational way, I knew his assessments were at the bottom of my very long list of problems, and challenging Vernon in any way just to prove my parent's worthiness to him was a completely pointless and risky endeavour, but the clear inkling of annoyance I felt could not be ignored. I wanted, at the very least, to give him the driest of retorts with a not so subtle insult to accompany it, just for my own peace of mind, but self control had been drilled into my manners and so I kept my unassuming and subdued facade.

The time would come for me to let all my repressed anger loose, and precipitating that event would be futile and unnecessary. Being forced to bear with the current circumstances was discouraging, but when confronted with the possible outcomes I could not deny the advantages of patience.


	8. Chapter VII

Life continued without much change and the weeks blend into one another while I continued with my studies.

I never would have thought that any part of Surrey would ever endear itself to me, but even I had to admit, if reticently, that I had become quite fond of the hours I spent in contemplative silence or unhurried reading, both at the solace of my bedroom and at the local park. Even in the cold weather the current season brought, I enjoyed the solitude I could find under the shadow of the trees, not at all bothered by the low temperatures that could easily be fought with a heating charm.

My new books always accompanied me, their covers and pages hidden from view under glamours to avoid the curious eyes of the muggles around me. Among the other things I always carried with me were the notebooks in which I wrote my new found knowledge as well as whatever I could remembered from my previous life. They also contained, in detailed description, the events that had taken place back then as well as their ramifications, and the secrets I had uncovered either intentionally or by accident. I analysed it all from time to time in an attempt to elaborate the most plausible strategies for the upcoming years, but found myself sometimes at a loss about certain variables that didn't come together as smoothly as I would have wished.

But those insecurities didn't deter me, and I kept on reading every piece of information I could get my hands on.

If there was one thing I had learned in life it was the undeniable fact that one never knew enough. I could memorize every book in existence, conduct an innumerable amount of experiments to increase the knowledge I possessed and live a hundred lives, but it would never be enough. Nature and magic worked in such ways that there would always be exceptions to rules, exceptions that would need to be further investigated only to bring up more questions than answers.

This conviction of mine was only further supported by the regular reading sessions I was undergoing. Among the books I had bought that time in Diagon Alley were some about Runes and Symbology in wizarding societies, a subject I had chosen to disclose as much information as possible in regards to the rune in my forehead.

The fact that I had lived to the ripe age -at least by muggle standards- of sixty, yet had never seriously considered the importance of runes before this moment did nothing but proof the never ending process of learning.

And the subject was fascinating.

From what I had gathered thus far, each wizarding society had a different group of symbols all of their own, from the hieroglyphs in Egypt to the Nordic runes in Sweden. While they differed in their appearance and the complexity of their design depending on the culture they original from, the uses they could be given and the way in which their properties could be harvested, both individually taken and as a combination of runes, were essentially the same. From mere carvings to complex rituals, runes could be used to enhance an individual's senses, promote fertility in sterile couples, and the creation of wards or magical objects, just to name a few.

They were also one of the key components in the creation of 'living' wizarding portraits. It was all so very fascinating.

Strangely enough though, it seemed also that while each set of symbols could be successfully used by any witch or wizard, regardless of their race, country of origin or even magical affinity, the best results could only be obtained when using those symbols that were intrinsic of the magical community they were a part of.

In other words, the necessary steps would not only be easier and less magically draining to perform, but the results would be more potent when using the runes that were commonly used among one's peers.

The reasons for this particularities seemed to be linked in part with the magical symbols used by one's ancestors. As far as i was able to understand, is it some kind of magical memory so to say, an imprint left in an individual's DNA -maybe it was specific to one's core? Or perhaps it was related to their blood?- when generation after generation used the same runes to channel their magic. Magic seemed to accustom itself to respond in certain ways, to react in a specific manner when an individual's intentions were often enough linked to a determined symbol, and when that same meaning between desired result and symbol was passed from parent to child, it just seemed to reinforce Magic's memory of what had to happen.

All in all, runes were similar to a language that magic could learn and that could be inherited from one's ancestors. It was not such a farfetched notion, specially when taking into consideration the fact that runes were basically alphabets created ages ago.

Other variables seemed to be related to this particular matter, or at least that was one of the author's suppositions. For instance, magic imbued in a certain land after centuries of exposure could also influence the language in which a wizard's power could better manifest itself. This way, it seemed that person who is born and raised in Egypt could hypothetically perform more efficiently through hieroglyphs than Nordic runes. Of course, this last theory was only that, a theory, and its truthfulness had yet to be proved.

In any case, I was more inclined to believe the community-magic hypotheses myself. According to a decades long study that had been performed back in the nineteenth century, the most effective runes for an individual to use were those that other members of the same society used. It had to do with the fact that, since magic was kind of sentient in a sense, it was bound to interact with its surroundings and the magic of the people that surrounded a witch or wizard. At the base of this theory lay the belief that every individual was connected to others in what seemed to be a rather complex structure that, while invisible to the naked eye, still affected the user's magic. It seemed that, while a person communicated with their peers through spoken and written words, their magic learned to do the same in a language all of its own.

Still, no matter the beauty and the almost logic behind those theories, I had to admit that I felt kind of skeptic in regards of their accuracy.

Also, certain number of matters seemed to remain without answers, for nowhere did it even pose the questions that I myself was troubled with while reading the books. For instance, what happened to those whose family magic was accustomed to react to a certain set of symbols, like the once from the Chinese I Ching, but were born and raised in another completely different country with a different set of runes, like the Egyptian hieroglyphs? With which of those alphabets would they obtain better results, the one linked to their blood or the one they were influenced by when growing up? Or perhaps they would be capable of using both sets of runes to its maximum potential?

From the looks of it, there was no clear answer to this problem. It seemed to be the classical nature versus nurture dilemma and unfortunately I was not equipped, either in terms of knowledge or sources, to give an answer myself.

What was clear at this point was that the set I would obtain the best results with was the one derived from the Elder Futhark, an original Swedish alphabet from the second century that later have origin to the Anglo-Saxon Fuþorc.

For my eternal sorrow though, I had not thought to buy a basic guide on their meaning and uses, but I made a mental note to acquire one as soon as possible. Just the thought of all the possibilities… Well, it was certainly an appealing subject.

 

* * *

 

At this point in time, I had already decided that my next visit to Walburga should be at the end of February. To be honest with myself, I was rather excited at the prospect of seeing her again, a possibility which I would never have predicted before meeting her in the flesh.

I had visited Walburga five times since that first day back in June, and I could safely admit that the company of that woman was more than welcome. To say that I had been desperate of having once again an adult conversation would be no understatement. Seven years had passed since I had been reborn, and the only other person I had allowed myself to confess my supposed adult status to had been Walburga.

Part of me was just tremendously relieved to finally be able to act my own age, to converse with someone that would treat me like the person I was and not the child I seemed to be. I just wished, no, needed to stop pretending I was a seven year old instead of a fully grown wizard that had lived long enough to sire three children that had grown to adulthood. I had to tread carefully, of course, least I blew up my rather precarious cover as the Dark Lord, but being capable of debating a larger variety of subjects such as magical theory or politics with another adult, even while staying in character was still more rewarding than I could have possibly believed.

I felt almost ashamed of admitting it, but behaving and talking like a child for so many years had taken its toll on me, to the point where I had trouble using a more sophisticated vocabulary like the one I had adopted through the years. Pretending to be less intelligent than I was seemed to have actually made me duller, and it was embarrassing when I had to stop myself before speaking just because I could not remember the specific words I wanted to use.

For this reason, the occasional conversation with Walburga was a gift I intended to take advantage of. And for all of her faults, Walburga was still an incredibly well educated woman with a sharp intellect that never ceased to bring a smile to my lips.

The truth was that against all odds, I liked her. I took great enjoyment in having tea with this regal and sophisticated looking woman that hid a good deal of cunning behind her composed facade, and that from one moment to another would suddenly show a glint of the Black madness I had seen in so many members of her family. Even Sirius had inherited this trait, even if not completely, and the times when Walburga smiled shrewdly I could actually see where my godfather had taken his gesture from.

We talked a lot about a variety of themes, hopping from one subject to another with easiness and enjoying the moments of silence that went by without a trace of awkwardness. We also planned a lot, expecting with a high level of anticipation the moment when we would enact the first steps of our plan. I could see, though, that Walburga was more than excited by the prospect of having her son again by her side, but that to this expectation was added a not a small amount of fear.

I could completely understand the source of her reticence, for her troublesome relationship with Sirius was well known to me. Still, it said a lot that even though she had been driven by anger when Sirius left his family to stay with the Potters, the only thing Walburga did was burn his name from the family tree on the wall. She had the power and the right, as Head of Family, to prevent him from getting his inheritance by grounds of having turned away from his family. But she hadn't done such a thing even when she knew he had fought for the Light, years before Sirius had been incarcerated for betraying my parents.

The relationship between them both was complicated in ways I did not even dare to analyse, full of past mistakes, regrets and resentment, but even if she would not admit such a thing if her life depended on it, it was plain to see that Walburga did care about her son, deeply.

And that would be my gift to her. Once Sirius was finally out of Azkaban and had taken custody of me, I would do anything in my power to heal them both and return Walburga the son she so clearly missed.

How I would do it, I still was unsure of, but I wanted to help them restore their relationship in part because of selfish reasons since it benefited me, in part as a way to thank Walburga for her help and soothing my guilt for lying to her. But mostly because I just hated seeing the last members of a family in such a deep conflict, both believing the other would rather see them dead than happy.

Still, there was much to do before I could put my hands on that particular matter.

Walburga would need the Malfoys' help in her mission, for the political power she had left after past events and years of hiding in her own house was minimal. Sadly, she could not resort to them as soon as she would have prefered.

In the meanwhile we talked, mainly about politics and history yet barely touched subjects such as Voldemort's past or their common acquaintances, which I was immensely grateful for since I did not know every detail about him. I tried to inquire about her knowledge on runes once, but it was to no avail. Walburga hadn't taken Ancient Runes as an optative and hadn't got a clue on how they were used. The temptation on telling her about Dumbledore's ritual and convince her to help me was strong and almost unavoidable, but there was a limit to how much I was prepared to tell her. While she knew I was not as powerful as before because of my young body and underdeveloped core, it would be a grievous mistake to let her know that my magic had been actually bound. For her, it probably would be seen as a weakness and a reason to distrust my capability in archiving my plans, a sign of inaptitude for not being capable of protecting myself or heal the wrongs that had been done to me. And if I could not take care of myself, how would I possibly protect my followers? I would lose respect in her eyes, and that was worse enough without taking into account the possibility of her discovering, with that clever mind of hers, about the existence of horcruxes and the falsehood of my supposed possession.

But I enjoyed our time together immensely. Talking with her was sometimes like a battle of wills yet conversation seemed to flow easily, as if we had actually known each other for years. The woman was cleverer than she let on, and every single opinion she had uttered had been thought through before being said out loud. Sometimes I could still see some sliver of insanity shining through her eyes and I had trouble keeping up with her sudden changes in demeanour or her unwarranted yet loud opinions on muggles and muggleborns, but even then she was a far cry from the yelling, crazy hag she had been in her portrait form.

If I thought it possible, I would actually wonder if it was her painted version the one that had gone mad instead of her living self because yes, she wasn't exactly the epitome of sanity at the current moment, but neither had she forsaken all rational thoughts but the ones concerning blood purity.

Still, there was an evident strange behaviour on her part, though, like a heavy swing in her moods and a stronger emotional reaction to subjects that a pure-blood like herself should have been capable of hiding behind a stoic mask. It didn't actually affect her intellect, thank Merlin, but it left me sometimes worried about her emotional stability, specially because I could see sometimes how her lack of control over her own emotions seemed to upset her. She didn't always notice those fluctuations herself and even then she did not always show any reaction, but the times she did were often enough for me feel concerned about her.

I did not have a clue of the cause of it.

Was it the solitary life she had led in the last few years, cut off from society and human contact? Was it perhaps the pain of being the last member of her family, having her oldest son as good as dead in a cell in Azkaban? Or maybe the lack of purpose in her life?

Whatever the cause, it worried me but I could only hope that having Sirius returned to her would help her in some way.

Then again, maybe she had always been that way. I could not be certain, since I had only met the woman before in her portrait and irrational self.

That thought did not lessen my concerns though, and I promised myself to breach the subject in our late February talk. Subtlety, of course, for the last thing I wished for was to offend such a proud woman as her.

When the day finally arrived I apparated to an alley near Grimmauld Place and hid myself under the usual glamours, adopting my Margo Adams persona once again. It would do me no good if someone from the wizarding world were to recognize me after all. Just thinking of the backlash of people finding out Harry Potter was alone in London and visiting a notorious Dark witch… Well, I could do without that problem in my life.

Without further ado, I approached the gates of Grimmauld Place and rang the flower-shaped bell, waiting to be let inside. It didn't take long for the gates to open and for Walburga to appear at the doorway, looking at me with a slight smile that spoke volumes of her desire to see me. If nothing else, at least my feelings were reciprocated, I idly thought.

"Good morning, Marvolo", she greeted me. She certainly looked rather composed today, both emotionally and in appearance. Not a hair was out of place and her traditional robe, made in shades of grey and beige, suited her well. It looked she had started to take more care of herself.

"Good morning to you too, Walburga dear. How have things been going for you?", I asked in return, slightly amused by our budding relationship.

"Oh, I have been rather busy since our last meeting", she smiled while letting me through the doorway. "But let me lead you to the sitting room. We will be more comfortable talking in there."

As we walked together through the manor, I could appreciate what had had the woman so occupied in the past few weeks. If I had not known the layout of the house as well as I did, I could have easily believed that I had entered the wrong home.

The drapes that hung on the windows were different and while still on the dark side of the spectrum, they were brighter than I had ever seen them before. They were even slightly open, letting the morning light through. Similar things could be said about the walls, where the new ivory coloured paint tricked the eye into thinking that the place was more spacious than before. Still, the same portraits of late Black family members were positioned on the walls, their inhabitants sleeping much like the one's in the Headmaster's office back Hogwarts.

Fortunately, there was a lack of house-elf heads on the walls didn't go unnoticed either.

All in all, it was a welcome change that spoke volumes of Walburga's change in mentality. Even the air smelled fresher, a loud cry from the staleness that had dominated the rooms before.

"I have to say, Walburga, that if this is the result of you being busy, I will find ways of having you occupied more often", I said approvingly.

Walburga let a soft chuckle escape from her lips while still trying to hide a smile. "What can I say, my Lord? Idle hands are the devil's workshop."

I stopped right where I was.

"What did you just say, Walburga?", I asked with coldness in my voice.

Walburga turned around and watched the incredulous expression on my face with increasing confusion.

"I.. I… Is it because I called you 'My Lord'? I promise, my Lo.. Marvolo, I promise it won't happen again! It is just hard to break old habits and…"

"Stop right there, Walburga. That is not what I meant, though I think I have repeatedly made myself clear in that regard. But I digress. I was talking about the expression you just used, the one with the 'devil', if you remind?"

"That idle hands are the devil's workshop? Isn't that what they said? I just thought..."

"Yes, Walburga, that's what they say. That's what muggles say", I stated, my expression unreadable because I was not sure about what my emotions should be. The Devil was a muggle construct, a figure religious non-magicals had created in contraposition to their God. There was no such thing in wizarding culture. A blood supremacist like Walburga would never utter a muggle saying. Where had she even heard that expression? Or in the worst case scenario, was she not even Walburga? Was it someone else impersonating her? I readied my magic just in case, regretting the fact that I didn't have a wand on me to better defend myself.

Walburga's eyes widened, her mouth taking a round form showing clearly the moment she realised the implications of her words. She must have also felt how my magic was suddenly in turmoil, the air cracking around us, for she glanced at my right hand as if expecting to see a wand ready to attack.

"My… my Lord! Marvolo, I can explain!", she pleaded me with her eyes. "I am not consorting with mudbloods, I swear, it's just that…"

"Save your breath, woman, and call your house-elf." If she was not Walburga the elf would not respond her command but, even then, I would not believe otherwise unless Kreacher had explicitly stated that it was his mistress in front of me. After all, he was the only one that could identify Walburga without a shadow of doubt, and I firmly believed that Kreacher would not lie to me. The real Walburga had told him to do whatever I wished, back then on my first visit here. And even if he had been later on ordered to do the opposite, I was sure that I would be able to detect it based on his behaviour around Walburga. Kreacher was not known for being able to fake respect towards someone he did not think deserving after all, and no-one deserved it in the way his mistress did.

With a pop, the creature appeared between Walburga and me and immediately read the tension in the air, positioning himself in front of his mistress, facing me warily.

Kreacher's protective stance told me everything I needed to know, but for the sake of abandoning all doubts I still asked.

"Kreacher," I started before any other order could be given to him, straight to the point, "is this woman your mistress, Walburga, or someone else impersonating her?"

The house-elf looked over his bony shoulder with a mix of wariness and confusion, but firmly answered my question.

"She is noble mistress Walburga."

"Are you sure?", I asked again, glancing at the way the woman throwing nervous glances back and forth between me and her servant.

The house-elf's head bobbed up and down with conviction, but the creature still eyed me unsure of what the reason for my questions was. "Kreacher is sure. Kreacher always knows mistress. He is sure."

I eyed the creature for some seconds, but gave in after some small consideration.

"Very well, Kreacher", I said with a firm nod. You may leave."

And after glancing back at Walburga for confirmation, the elf left the hall with another barely heard pop.

My shoulders relaxed and I felt some tension leave my muscles. Walburga on the other hand seemed to be frozen on her spot, still looking at me with round eyes and shocked demeanour.

"You will have to forgive my rudeness, Walburga," I started to say, "but I had to be sure it was you and not an imposter. You will agree with me that hearing you say such a muggle expression from a pureblood is unexpected. At least when not dealing with a Weasley", I bitterly added. But my words didn't seem to have any visible effects on Walburga, her body remaining as tense and her eyes as wide as they were before.

I took a cautious step in her direction, just as Walburga murmured something so softly that I was unable to understand what she said. When I asked her to repeat her words, just a single name came out of her lips.

"Sirius…"

I remained still where I was, not approaching her in fear of spooking the witch.

"I… It was Sirius who told me about that muggle saying. It was shortly before he left to live with the Potters, when he abandoned his true family", she released a soft yet slightly hysterical laugh, her hand darting to cover her mouth as soon as it left her lips. "I just… I… I was going through his things last week and I… I couldn't help myself from reminiscing the last few months he spent here!", she exclaimed, trying and failing to keep what little was left of her composure.

At this point Walburga was downright crying, her face covered in tears, shoulders shaking with barely restrained sobs, and her legs having failed her, leaving the distraught witch laying on the floor.

"I haven't been in the same room as my son since he was fifteen!", she told me between sobs. "He… he wouldn't answer any of my letters, he didn't even attend his brother's funeral! My sweet Regulus, my baby boy… He was too young to die!"

Walburga was completely hysterical by now. The absolute heartbreak that only a mother could feel was plainly exposed for the whole world to see, and I was deeply disturbed by the sight in front of me. I couldn't help but be reminded of all the other mothers I had failed during my life, and as always I wanted to fall on my knees and beg forgiveness for my inability to save their son's lives.

The feeling never ceased to crush me, leaving me breathless and filled with regret. I rationally knew that most things were out of my control, that even those decision that relied solely on me could have consequences no one would expect, but that knowledge did nothing when exposed to the pain of a grieving mother. I could still see the crying faces of those I had failed so many of them, from Cedric's mother to the mother of my children. Ginny's tortured cries, her never-ending suffering still haunted me at nights, mixed with my own powerless despair at the loss of two of my beautiful children.

There was not a thing I could do to bring back the dead though, nor was there a spell in existence capable of making this kind of pain disappear, but the least I could try was to stay by her side and pray for my presence to sooth Walburga, no matter how little the comfort I could give her.

I deeply regretted having reminded Walburga of her plight and dearly wished I had let my suspicions slide, but then again there was too much at stake and I had to make sure it was not a trap of some kind.

Cautiously, like one would do with a wounded beast, I approached the figure on the floor until I laid besides her. I put my hand on her back, slowly moving it up and down in what I hoped was a reassuring gesture. But Walburga seemed to take little comfort in my attempts and only ended up weeping harder than before.

I wasn't deterred though, and remained at her side for long minutes that seemed like hours, whispering soothing nothings to her.

Time passed and my legs started to hurt from my position on the floor, but I was determined to keep on giving this woman as much solace as possible without hurting her pride. Or without damaging my cover as her Lord.

Walburga seemed to calm down at some point, even if her tears kept on endlessly falling down her cheeks. She lifted her head while her hands still partially covered her face, then took a deep breath and with a shaky yet determined voice asked me, "My Lord, I beg you… Please, my Lord. I did not ask you back then, I thought you would tell me when… when you thought it appropriate, but then you… Then the thing at the Potter's happened and I… My Lord, I need to know… What happened to my son? Why did my Regulus have to… to die?" Walburga's voice hitched at the last word and a new round of tears followed soon after.

I did not know what answer to give her. She could not know the truth, for it would link Regulus' death to Voldemort and probably turn Walburga against the Dark Lord. Having one son that had actively fought against him and another that died trying to destroy Voldemort… It would probably be too much for Walburga and I might loose her support entirely. The possibility of telling her that I had no knowledge of what had happened to Regulus was still there, and it would be congruent with past events: Voldemort did not know what had happened to his follower, after all. But I wanted to give this woman some sort of closure. She was already suffering enough.

I had to come up with a new lie to add to the long list I already had, and I made a mental note to write down every single one of them in my notebooks as soon as I got home. I had to keep track of them in order to not contradict myself in the future.

My thoughts were completely focused on coming up with a story to tell her, one that would not turn her against the Dark and that seemed unrelated enough with the war that her heart would not seek revenge. She had enough negative emotions in her, and I did not want to be the one to add another reason to her mental downfall.

For that very reason, I tried to keep the story simple, using all the information Kreacher had given me about his former master back in the years following the Second Wizarding War.

"Regulus was friends with another of my Death Eaters, Augustus Rookwood. Did he ever talk to you about it?" I asked, for the sake of involving her in my storytelling. She nodded slowly, and I continued with my tale. "Rookwood was an Unspeakable and worked for me as a spy in the Department of Mysteries. He and Regulus bonded over their shared love for knowledge, and as far as I knew they were often to be found in Rookwood's basement, experimenting with one thing or another, trying to prove their theories and creating new artefacts. One of those experiments went wrong."

I took a deep breath, my hand still on Walburga's back moving soothingly. The witch just stared at me with those pained eyes of her, hanging on my every word. I could see she was starting to realise where my story was going, and before she could open her mouth to ask her next question I already guessed what it would be.

"It was not Rookwood's fault, Walburga. Believe me, I watched his memories of the events, and there was not a thing he could have done to prevent Regulus' demise. Your son just… he mixed the wrong ingredients with the wrong spell, and before he realised a small explosion occurred. No body was left."

Tears appeared again with renewed force on Walburga's face as I finished my tale, but even I was able to tell that there was some relief mixed in with her sadness. I felt my resolve strengthen in that moment: I could not give her Regulus back, but I sure as Hell was going to reunite her with her eldest son.

Only her weeping could be heard in the silence that reigned in the hall, and I dutifully stayed by her side until no tears were left and her eyes closed in sleep.


End file.
